The Heiress

Back in training, one of the things that drilled into us was the idea of bravery versus stupidity. Helping out a fallen mate while holding off a group of Death Eating arses? Brave. Going out on patrol alone in an area you don't know well? Stupid.

Those were pretty cut-and-dried examples, though, and there were plenty more that were a bit murkier. But one thing that had always stuck with me was something Kingsley had said: There was no shame in retreat. That if you're tired, or sick, or you just don't have any bloody idea of how to proceed, it's perfectly fine to just lay low until help comes or until you figure out what to do.

That in mind, I knew that the safest thing I could do after my row with Hermione was to lay low for awhile and keep to my flat. Because I was bloody tired - tired of always getting my arse handed to me the minute things seemed to be working; and I was sick - sick to death of having everything blow up in my face; and I had no buggering clue how to proceed.

But there was a problem with the staying out of sight plan. Even all the shite the goblins heaped on me wasn't enough to keep me distracted from something I'd started noticing about my flat: Mainly that I hated it. It had been the first place I saw once Daphne threw me over, and it had been owned by a wizard, so everything I needed - Floo connections, pre-ordered wards, hot water in the loo - was already there. And then add on the bed and other things I got out of my old room at the Burrow, and there you had it: home.

Except that it had never really felt like home to me. It was just a place to go to keep the rain and wind off and have a little egg and toast in the morning. And sitting alone for three days, it was like I was seeing all the grot for the first time: the dirty walls, the broken blinds in the living room, the endless bilge that spilled out from closets and cupboards. It was depressing, really, just how shabby everything was. No one but a mad wanker would willingly live that way for more than a month or two. And I'd lived that way for going on two years. That was beyond mad; it was bloody pathetic, was what it was. But I didn't give a toss.

Everything about my life in those three days after Hermione stormed away was fairly pathetic. I left her things where they lay crumpled on the floor in my bedroom. I kept to the couch, not wanting to go back to my own bed after everything that had gone on there in the past few days. I left her bath things where they were, kept her tea cup in its place, stepped over the books that she'd been reading that were still scattered all over, and just sat on the couch, staring out at the dirty walls, drinking Firewhisky until my face was numb.

I didn't hear from Harry in that time, and I really didn't expect to. I knew he was probably just letting me stew in my own water for awhile. It was about what I deserved, I supposed, for not doing what he'd asked, but I'd tried to warn him that it was a rubbish idea. Maybe the one good thing in all of it was that I didn't have to worry about her safety anymore. That's not to say that I wasn't worried, just that I didn't have to anymore.

That probably wasn't the worst thing in the world. I kept thinking back to that garden at the Muggle inn and how just a kiss from Hermione had diverted me enough so that she was able to disarm me. Being distracted that easily and that frequently wasn't a good thing when you were trying to watch out for someone. Just being around Hermione was enough to run me off the road and make me forget what I was about. Harry wouldn't have that problem, at least.

With not much to do, nothing to look at, I wandered around a bit. I passed my bookshelf and saw Hermione's book sitting there. I almost reached for it, but decided against it. No matter what anyone said, there was nothing in that ruddy book that wouldn't tell me what I already knew: Harry defeated Voldemort. Lots of people died. Hermione and I had loved each other, but amnesty and a bunch of mad Aurors had gotten in the way. Hermione had left and started a new life without me, and I was the same pathetic prat I'd been 10 years ago. The end.

On the third night after Hermione had gone, I finished some work and owled it back, I'd gone out for a bit of air and some egg-fried rice from the Muggle take-away place up the road. I really wasn't paying much attention to anything until I got back to my building, started up the stairs and nearly ran over Warren, who was hurrying down. He reeled in surprise, but it smoothed over with a grin.

"Oi, there you are! I'd just slipped a note under your door. Blimey, this is a bit out of the way - had to go through the personnel records to find out where you lived. It's the edge of nowhere, this is."

He took a step back and studied me. "Merlin, Ron, you look like you've been dragged on the back of broom and dropped down a floo."

"Nice seeing you, too. What're you doing down this way?"

"Well, I figured I'd personally deliver the last report on the Edinburgh vaults. I'm not half happy that shite's finally done with."

"Mm." I fussed with the bag, which was starting to break up; it was so soaked in grease. I did manage to make a pretty brilliant catch of the container before it spilled on my shoes.

He tagged behind me back up the stairs. "Oh, and I also wanted to say congratulations! I figured you'd get it all sorted in the end."

"Eh, it's not a big deal. I'm used to handling these cheap-arse Muggle bags," I mumbled, fumbling with my keys. "Food's good, though."

"You know, a while back, Mum said Ms. Granger's book seemed a bit unfinished. Now it gets an ending. I'm happy for you, mate. We all are. Everyone down at Gringotts wanted to send some more flowers to Ms Granger - and a bunch to you, too, but I told them that maybe something like a new cauldron or a broom for two would be a better gift."

As soon as he mentioned Hermione, I stopped dead. The skin on the back of my neck tingled and my hands shook so bad that I couldn't get my stupid key in the lock.

"What're you on about? What's she have to do with anything?"

"Come on, you know! Though I suppose with all the muck that's gone on the past few weeks, I could see why you'd want to keep it quiet. But someone at The Prophet's been doing his homework."

I turned completely round to look at him, and his smile fell away.

"You really have no idea what I'm talking about?"

I shook my head.

His mouth hung open. "Well ... well ... what about this, then?"

He rummaged in his robes and took out a copy of The Prophet, which I didn't bother reading anymore unless they were running special stories on Quidditchers. I didn't have to look hard to find out what Warren had been going on about. Hermione was smiling up from the front page, looking more relaxed and happy than I think I'd ever seen her. Above her face was one line in huge letters so black they seemed to shine:

MINISTRY WHISTLEBLOWER TO MARRY ON FRIDAY

~*~

It took some doing getting Warren to leave. First he was apologising all over the place for coming by and giving me such a shock. He calmed down a little when I told him that I'd already known about it, but just hadn't expected to see it splashed across The Prophet. Then he started in with all sorts of questions: If not me, then who was Hermione marrying? When did it all happen? What about the money? I evaded as best I could, and he took the hint finally, probably figuring that I didn't fancy talking about it much. He was right, of course, but for all the wrong reasons - mostly.

As soon as he'd left, I read the story. A lot became clear: For one, the writer - a useless git named Cuthbert Millstone - hadn't talked to Hermione at all. The story said that a "certain quarter" informed The Prophet that "Hermione Granger, whose startling evidence convicted a cadre of rogue Aurors in a celebrated trial a decade ago" had filed for bonding certificate at the Department of Records and Licenses. The whole thing had quotes from "sources close to Ms. Granger" and other "involved parties."

Another thing that was pretty obvious - to me at least: It was all Harry's doing. When you filed for a bonding certificate, all the little details were between the two people getting bonded. You didn't have to put down a date for joining or a place or anything on the parchment itself, but all that was in there - that Hermione and her "unnamed suitor" were going to be at the Ministry for a civil service Friday at half-past two. Since that sort of thing wasn't on a bonding request, it couldn't've been found out any other way than for someone to have told him, and that someone had to have been Harry. He was probably the "source close to Ms Granger" and all that other rot.

I knew what he was trying to do: He wanted to draw out the person who'd been sending the letters, maybe get him to lay in wait for Hermione and Whetwistle outside the Ministry so that Harry and Urdsmore could catch him. That was all well and good, and it just might work, if there was any luck on Harry's side. There was just one problem: there was going to be a wedding. You couldn't fake a bonding request, and if the story was true, there had been one filed. Hermione was actually going through with it, no matter what else Harry might've been planning.

I looked up at the picture again and the dead-pleased look on her face made my stomach knot up. And that's when I noticed the other thing. The picture was all wrong. Not that it wasn't her, but it wasn't her the way she was now. She looked younger in this picture and there weren't those deep grooves in her forehead that showed up even when she wasn't thinking hard, and there wasn't that dullness in her eyes that hung about even when she smiled. Not that Hermione was done-in, or anything. She was still quite pretty, as far as that went, but the more I stared at that picture, the more it felt like I was looking at a different person.

And then it hit me. I grabbed the paper and went over to the mantle where "our" picture was still sitting. I looked from one to the other and my face went red hot. I remembered that back when Hermione and I got engaged, there was a little piece in Witch Weekly about "Harry Potter's two best mates getting off with each other," and it had a picture of us that my Mum had sent in. The Prophet had used that same sodding picture, except it had cut me out of it. When I looked hard, though, I could see a bit of my jumper, but not much else.

It was a little thing: There hadn't been any pictures of Hermione from the trial - she'd been all covered up and surrounded by Aurors - and I supposed that Cuthbert Bloody Millstone felt that he needed to have some sort of happy picture of the bride to be, and that was all they could find.

I looked round again, and gazed at my rotten flat and the empty Firewhisky bottles everywhere, and I felt a little dizzy. It was truly going to happen. Hermione was banging on with this stupid plan. Even if it was just for show, she was going to bond with Gregory bloody Whetwistle. I couldn't believe it, but I couldn't understand why I couldn't believe it. Hermione couldn't stand failure; I'd known that for years. She always needed to excel at every bleeding thing, and Merlin help you if you tried to get in her way. She'd put her all into trying to sell the wizarding public the amnesty programme, no matter what it ended up costing her. She would've done it, too, but Kingsley and the others had cabbaged it. Now she needed to win at saving Whetwistle's family, and I supposed she wasn't going to let anyone stand in her way this time.

I went to the lav, splashed some water on my face and had a look in the mirror. Standing there, face dripping, hair all over the place. I looked tired. I felt done-in, and I'd had enough. Enough of every blasted bit of it. Hermione had made her choice, and I had to live with it. I had to live, period.

I thought about the money Daphne had given me, had another long stare in the mirror, and made up my mind to do what I should've done years ago: Get away. There wasn't anything for me anymore in Britain except reminders of how I'd failed at just about everything I'd ever done. I had some money; I could do it. Start over where no one knew me, or Hermione, or her bloody book or anything about wizards at all. I'd never lived as a Muggle, but it might be a nice change. At least I wouldn't be bored.

I went back out to the living room, took up a length of scroll and a quill. As I wrote, my mind cleared and I felt at peace for the first time in awhile. Everything about it seemed so simple, I didn't know why it had taken me so long. I wasn't so very old. It wasn't too late for me. I could still make something of myself if I wanted to. Maybe for the past ten years, I just hadn't wanted to. I did now.

Three seconds later, Pig was shooting out the window with my resignation to Gringotts tied to his leg. I wrote out some other letters - to Mum and Dad, Harry and Ginny, the twins, and one to Bill. I reckoned I'd send all of them at once through the multiple owl service at Gringotts when I went there to collect my things. I lugged the bag of gold from its hiding place in the cupboard and pawed through it, then set it aside. It wasn't as big as Hermione's fortune, but it would keep me from starving for a good long while.

I reckoned the best plan was to get a train out of London before Hermione bonded with Whetwistle. Friday was only two days away, so I didn't have time to faff about. I spent that night and the next packing, sorting and cleaning. I waited until nightfall to get the furniture out. I had to use pretty strong Levitating Charms, and it was done pretty quickly once I set my mind to it. In this neighbourhood, old furniture tended to disappear fast, so I reckoned that by the time I was ready to leave, it would all be gone.

I wanted to travel light, so I couldn't afford to be sentimental. In the end, I only took a few pairs of trousers, my outdoors cloak, a spare robe, some pants and a few jumpers. Anything else, I figured I'd just buy when I got where I was going. The best thing about not being able to cook was that you didn't have much to clean, so the kitchen took no time at all. I got the lav to rights, though, leaving everything but my toothbrush. I glanced at Hermione's bath things and thought about tossing the lot, but I couldn't really bring myself to touch anything.

In the middle of getting my flat sorted, I went down to Gringotts to clear out. No one said a bloody word. No, "Good job, Weasley." No, "We'll miss you, Ron." No, "Thanks for working your fingers to the nub year in and year out with only a three-Galleon-a-year raise to show for it." They just cashed my vault and pushed my money across the counter as if I'd been any other customer that they'd mutter naff words about as soon as their backs were turned. The goblins didn't even seem curious about my wanting the money in Muggle currency and not Galleons. Gits.

I'd stopped up to say goodbye to Warren, but was told that he'd been sent to Edinburgh to tour the new vaults. I added his name to the list of people to write to once I landed. After a stop in Gringotts' Owlery to mail off the scrolls, and a scroll to the Burrow tied to Pig's leg asking Mum and Dad to look after him for a bit, I was done. I stepped out the bronze doors, nodded to the guards, who ignored me as usual, and took a look back. There it was. Gringotts. Where I'd spent almost a third of my life and hated every second of it. I could barely believe that I was finally free of the place. I gave it a nice two-finger salute, for old-times sake. One of the goblins glared at me, but I just grinned and did it again and walked away whistling.

From Diagon Alley, I went into Muggle London to the Liverpool Street train station and talked with a pretty Muggle woman about my plans. I half tried to chat her up, just to make the process less boring, and she gave me a lot of good information and a good, long look down her shirt. I decided that my first stop would be Amsterdam. I'd travel overnight in one train, and then during the day in what looked like a really corking boat. The woman told me I'd be able to travel in the nicest compartments because it was the off-season. I asked her to get me on the first train she could, and it turned out there was just one berth left on a train leaving the next evening.

"It's usually all booked up," she said, smiling as she passed me a ticket. "You're quite lucky, aren't you?"

I didn't answer. That reminded me of what Harry said at St. Mungo's after Hermione's accident in the vault. I felt a chill; I didn't doubt that Harry, of all people, would understand why I was doing what I was doing, but I did feel bad about not having had a chance to talk to him first. But he would've only tried to get me to change my mind, and throw out rubbish about how things weren't as bad as all that. It was too late for that now. I tucked the ticket away, safe in my cloak, and went home to finish getting everything together.

By the next afternoon, everything I was taking was packed and ready. Everything I wasn't taking was in a rubbish bin, in someone else's flat, or in the case of Hermione's things, right where she'd bloody left them. My suitcases were at the door, I'd owled off my notice to leave and another month's rent to the git who owned my flat to keep him from getting too shirty about the short notice. I wondered what he'd do with Hermione's things. The old git might want to keep them and wear them himself. He seemed that type.

I checked my watch. I had a couple of hours before the train was to be off, and the lady Muggle mentioned I should get to the station an hour before to check my bags and settle in. The time dragged on, though, and I felt fidgety and nervous. I checked my watch, and something occurred to me. I'd arranged for letters to be sent to my family once I was out of the country, but there was one person that I'd need to say goodbye to personally, since sending an owl to him would be pretty useless - and I had enough time to do it. I grabbed my cloak and my luggage and rushed out into a pelting rain.

I'd been carrying that issue of The Prophet that Warren had brought around in my cloak pocket; I'd just stuffed it in without thinking about it. On the street, I passed a rubbish bin, and I reckoned I'd found a better home for the fucking thing. But as soon as I took it out, I was caught up in Hermione's big smile. Happy. She looked so happy. And I'd been standing next to her then. I tried to remember if I'd been smiling, too. I supposed I must've been. Why wouldn't I have? Voldemort was dead, I was going to be an Auror, and I was about to marry the love of my life. Who wouldn't have been grinning to all hell?

I didn't want to think about it - but then again, I suddenly didn't want to throw out the paper. So I didn't do either one, and hurried to a dark corner where I could Apparate without being seen and concentrated with all my might on getting to Newfield in one piece.

~*~

The graves of all the wizards and witches who'd died in the war lay in a valley that you could only get to by Apparition or broomstick. Above it was a pretty road lined with trees, but it tailed off into a cliff - the end of the line for Muggles. It would be a sheer drop to the valley floor and it'd be all over for them. A sign warning of a "dead end" - interesting little joke, I thought - kept most Muggles away, but a few mad ones had taken a tumble off the edge. Newfield's keepers - two older witches who never said a word to anyone - buried those poor Muggles right at the side of the grass. It was a cemetery after all, so why not? But there hadn't been any accidents like that in years. Everyone figured that the Muggles were starting to take the sign seriously.

Newfield's grounds stretched out in different directions far as the eye could see. Little stones marked the graves, and each one had different items that told a bit about who was buried there - framed pictures, bits of clothing - in one case, a sparkling new cauldron. But mainly they were identical - round stones that bore out the name and date of birth and year of death, and stuck to the upper right corner, a glittering Order of Merlin, First Class.

In all the sea of white and gold, it was a little hard to find who you were looking for. Sometimes the witches could help you, but I could see their white hats way on the other side. I looked around until I found what I was looking for - a grey willow tree right at the valley's edge. I stood in front of it and put my wand on the ground.

"Point Me!"

It spun and stopped, the tip glowing north. Grabbing it, I walked past the first row of stones, then the second, and made a sharp left at the third. Halfway in, I stopped at a stone in the middle of the row.

Percy Ignatius Weasley

August 22, 1976 - April 2, 1998

Died in valiant battle

"Oi, Perce. Rotten day out."

I'd never gone to see Percy by myself. As a family, we visited a few times a year - his birthday, Christmas, and Harry's birthday, which Scrimgeour had designated 'Harry Potter Day' and the day to remember everyone who'd died or been hurt in the war. Harry always came with us, and odd thing was, no one ever bothered him. A bit strange that the only time Harry could truly be at ease was when he was in a graveyard.

"Y'know, you're probably the last person I would've gone to for a talk or for advice," I began, shoving my hands in my pockets. "You were never really great at giving it. Remember that rubbish letter you sent me when I made Prefect? Anyway, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense to say goodbye in person. You're probably the person who'd be the most neutral on everything. And you'll let me talk without interrupting, which is a pretty brilliant thing, too."

Along with his Order of Merlin, Perce's Head Boy and Prefect badges were there, along with his wand, which had been broken in half at his funeral, according to custom, and laid cross-ways over his grave. Also there was what remained of the Weasley Clock.

When Perce had died, his hand had disappeared from the clock entirely. I hadn't been there when it happened, but Ginny told me that when it did, Mum had screamed loud enough to take the roof off the Burrow and had thrown the clock to the ground.

It hadn't broken completely; but the top of it cracked off and the face of it was rather crooked. It had been Dad's idea to bring it to Newfield. He'd figured that since we'd always know where he was, maybe Perce would want to keep track of the rest of us. Bending down, I could see that my hand was pointing to "Visiting Percy."

"I never knew what you thought about Hermione Granger. Whether you liked her or not, I mean. I suppose it really wouldn't have mattered to me what you thought. I probably would've liked her more early on, just to get on your wick if you hadn't liked her. But, ah ... there's this picture from when Bill got married. Hermione and I are dancing, and you're a bit off to the side. I think you were talking to Remus. You turn your head a little and look over at me and Hermione, and you smile. So I suppose you thought she was all right. Well, she's getting married in a couple of days, you know. And not to me. She was supposed to marry me a long time ago, but that didn't work out. I guess you know that by now."

There were more people around now, quietly milling about. A woman holding a little boy in her arms walked past, followed by an old man and a girl wearing Hogwarts robes. I checked the colours - Ravenclaw. I wondered why she wasn't in school that day.

"She doesn't love this bloke; she's marrying him for money. It's not as bad as it sounds. It's her money - sort of, but - well, it's pretty mental and it'd take too long to explain it all. She thinks she's doing a good thing, and maybe she is. But I can't just stand around and watch while she ..."

I took a breath. The rain was coming down a little harder now, and I thought about a Shield Charm, but decided not to chance it. You weren't really allowed to do magic in Newfield. If one of the caretaker witches had even caught me doing a Four-Point Spell, they would've chucked me out.

"I know I still love her. Harry and Bill and Mum and Dad think that I'm being stubborn and won't admit it, but none of them have ever come out and just asked me if I still loved her. I would've told them the truth. You can't go through what she and I went through and just stop loving a person. Just like when you were rowing with us and sided with Fudge and his handpicked gits. We hated what you were doing, but we didn't hate you. I suppose it's kind of a fine line.

"Anyway, she's going to do this mad thing for this bloke and maybe help him and help his daughters. And ... I don't think I'll ever see her again. I don't think I want to. It's too bloody hard. Every time I look at her, it reminds me just how much I managed to muck up my own life. I turn thirty-five in nine days, and I haven't done anything worthwhile other than helping Harry take down Volde- er, him." I lowered my voice when I saw the little Ravenclaw girl looking over at me.

"All I ever wanted was to just be Ron. Not 'Ron Weasley, Arthur's son,' or 'Ron Weasley, Harry Potter's best mate,' or 'Ron Weasley, Bill, Charlie, George, Fred and Percy's little brother.' I thought fighting in the war would make me a man - my own man. But it didn't really. The war didn't do shite except give me nightmares and take you away forever. I'm still not just Ron. In fact, I'm probably a little less than that. The only difference between me and everyone in this field is that I survived. That doesn't make me special. It makes me lucky."

I tightened the collar of my robes and slicked my hair out of my eyes.

"I keep thinking I deserve more than to be alone and have a job that makes me feel like shoving one of the twins' Whizzbang Willies up my arse. I don't know what I want out of life, but I know what I don't want and I know what I can't have. I have to get to someplace where those things don't matter much, so that means getting away from here. I'll miss Mum and Dad, and Harry and Ginny, and you and all the rest, but I've got to get on with my life. I've wasted enough time."

Stooping down, I straightened up his Prefect badge, which was starting to go a little crooked.

"You're probably the only one in the family who'd tell me I'm doing the right thing and wouldn't screech at me for 'running away from my problems' and that rubbish. You'd probably even have an opinion on what I might do to make a living. I don't have a ruddy clue about that, but I have a bit of gold that'll last me awhile. I'll find some way to make a living, I suppose. And if I don't, well, at least I tried.

"So goodbye, big brother, for now, anyway. I'll Firecall Mum and Dad when I get to wherever it is I'm going. I'm going to Amsterdam first, just for a breather. I reckon I'll be spending my birthday there, too. I'm not sure where I'll be, you know, for the long haul. I hope I get sorted by the Christmas visit. I reckon it'll take about that long for Mum to start speaking to me again when she finds out I left without visiting her and Dad first. You won't say anything to them, yeah?"

I smiled a little as I pulled out my wand to pay proper respects, as mandated by the Ministry. I could hear murmuring around me, and I knew that the other mourners were doing the same.

"I salute you; you who gave your life for the Light. Your bravery and sacrifice were not in vain. Rest well."

I put my wand to the broken pieces of his, and jumped back in surprise. For the quickest minute, it looked like the end of his wand had glowed. But that was impossible - it was snapped right in half. Useless for magic. I wondered if the rain had just reflected the glow of mine back so that it looked like Percy's had been lit.

"I miss you, Perce. Thanks for listening."

I bent down to straighten out his Prefect badge again, and I raised up quick when I saw something twinkling at the edge of my vision. I looked down at all the things scattered on his grave. His wand caught my eye again; the tip had an orange-ish cast to it, the way mine did when I did Nox before going to sleep. I put my finger to it. It wasn't warm, so it couldn't have been lit. Even so, I stared down at the two halves of Perce's wand until it was almost too dark for me to see anything at all.

~*~

My thoughts were full of Percy as I climbed the steps to my flat. I'd never had much doings with ghosts once I left Hogwarts. When I was younger, I'd thought that dying and then coming back as a ghost would be pretty wicked. You could move about and make off-colour jokes like Nearly-Headless Nick used to do, and it wasn't confining like being a portrait where you had to stay in your frame and that.

But then Harry told me one day about the a time right after Sirius Black had died, and Nearly-Headless Nick had told him that he wasn't coming back as a ghost because ghosts are the souls of wizards who'd been afraid to leave the world, and Sirius hadn't died in fear. At the time, I'd been sad for Harry for losing Sirius - a good wizard and a good man - and I still thought being a ghost would be brilliant.

When the war came, and I had to face death every day, I think it was about then that I understood what Nick had been trying to say. I missed Perce like mad, but I'd rather never see him again than see him as a ghost.

Still, I couldn't really understand what had happened at his grave. I didn't see him, I didn't hear him, but it really had seemed like his wand had caught on ... well, it was strange, that was all.

But in a way, it was a good thing, because thinking about that and him made me realise something; in my hurry to get away, I'd forgotten to take the picture of me and Hermione with Perce in the background. I hadn't meant to; I'd put it aside with some of the things from the lav, but after I got out of Newfield, I checked my bags and it wasn't there.

Part of me wanted to just leave it, but it really was one of the few mementos I had of Percy, and I wanted to keep hold of it, even if looking at it made me feel like someone was carving my heart up with a butterknife. So there wasn't anything else to do except go back to my flat, pinch it, and get on. I'd still have plenty of time for the train, and could probably get a spot of dinner beforehand.

As soon as I'd cleared the landing that fed into my floor, I heard a strange sort of scratching noise. It reminded me of when Scabbers used to beg for cheese by grinding his teeth together. I was fairly sure that a murderous criminal hiding as a lame rat had not found its way into my building, but even so, I poked my head cautiously around the corner to see what was going on.

What I saw was probably just as unlikely as a fugitive Animagus begging for scraps. Hermione was sitting on my doormat, her cloak wrapped tight around her. Her eyes were wide and glassy and she looked pale as buttermilk. The scratching sound was actually the noises her shoes were making as they dragged against the wood floor. She was having a hard time getting comfortable, which wasn't a huge surprise - the floor was splintery and hard and cold. It didn't make sense that she'd plunk down on it, but looking at her face, I couldn't tell if she was able to make any sense of anything at that moment.

A lot of thoughts went in and out of my head in the space of a second, but I got my face together and went out to her. I wasn't going to let this throw me off my plan. Likely she came back for something she'd left that she'd need for her bloody wedding, and had been thrown off because I wasn't in.

I strode toward her, jaw tight. "If you've come for your clothes -"

I stopped when she bolted up and pressed herself against my door like it was the only thing she had to hold her up. Her eyes were red at the edges and she looked mussed. Part of her cloak was torn and when I looked close, I could see dark red splotches on the ripped areas. At first glance, I thought the stains were chocolate, but when I got a closer look, I realised what it really was, and my heart nearly shot out of my chest.

"Blimey, what happened?" I looked her up and down, and all the anger I'd been carrying for the past few days dried up. "Where're you hurt?"

"I ..." She swallowed thickly and I nearly had to stop breathing in order to hear her. "I ... I've ... it's Gregory ..."

My insides started to knock into each other. "What about him? Where is he? Is he all right?"

"N-no. He's ..." Hermione started to sway a little. "He's dead, Ron. And I think ... I ... I ... killed him."

Her eyes rolled back in her head almost before she'd gotten the last word out, and she fainted dead away in my arms.