The Joining of the Three

Prologue

Ron was at his desk, checking the past week's invoices for the store. More to the point, he was pushing them around without really paying any attention to them. Try as he might, he just couldn't concentrate on work. Ever since the wedding, he'd been feeling strange. Not sick, not tired…just strange. Over the past week, though, the strange feeling had become a pit of dread in his stomach.

Something was wrong.

He'd checked with his parents, his siblings, Harry, Hermione…just about everyone he knew only to find that all was well with them. Nevertheless, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone he knew needed him.

He'd had this feeling before, many times in fact. But everyone he'd had the feeling about was accounted for…unless one of them was lying. Ron had half a mind to visit each member of his extended family with a Sneakoscope. He snorted at the thought of the looks on their faces if he did. "Paranoia isn't an attractive trait, Ron," he said to the empty shop.

Ron pushed back from his desk and prowled the front counters, rearranging displays that were already perfect, cleaning counters that were already spotless. Restlessness and dread were coursing through him, along with the unmistakable urge to do something.

Whatever this feeling was, it was growing more intense every day.

Ron…

He whipped his head around suddenly at the vague whisper. He was alone in the shop, but the sound had come very close to his ear. Adrenaline surged through him and a cold sweat dotted his forehead.

Ron, I'm in trouble.

He was out the door before he knew where he was going, calling her name.

Ron was halfway down the High Street before he stopped running. Where the hell did he think he was headed? Shaking his head and rubbing his temples, Ron walked back to Weasleys and engaged the anti-opening charm.

Still muttering to himself about running into the street like a fool, Ron went to his apartment over the store. While it was true that she was the only one he'd been unable to contact over his "something's wrong" feeling, he hadn't thought much of it.

That wasn't exactly true, but it was hard to contact someone that didn't want to be found.

He padded silently to his bedroom and changed into pajama bottoms for bed. Meaning to at least catch up on the day's news, he went back into the apartment's main room to retrieve the Prophet from the kitchen table.

Ron…

The voice was weaker, but at least he recognized it this time. Fighting the urge to run once again, he settled into the leather chair near the fireplace and answered it the only way he could think of. Concentrating all his efforts, he thought of her face, her voice.

Mariah?

A wave of relief flooded him. And then the pain began…deep, searing pain through his hands and feet. An almost unbearable tightness seized his throat, making it nearly impossible to breathe. His eyes were open, but the only thing he could see in the dim candlelight was a door about five feet away.

He couldn't see her. He tried to turn his head to look, but it was restrained somehow. His vision was limited to what was directly in front of him. Then he realized that he was seeing through her eyes.

Mariah? Where is this place? Ron asked with his mind, because his voice didn't seem to work. But there was no answer, just a growing fatigue spreading through him and an icy sadness sinking into his heart. Before he could question her again, the door swung open with a bang. A tall man stood there, silhouetted by the blinding sunlight coming through the door.

Ron blinked and nearly yelped in surprise. He was lying on the floor in front of his chair, a sheen of cold sweat covering him.

He walked to the small kitchen and poured himself a very large glass of water. Ron drank it with his hands shaking, then cursed at himself for spilling half of it down his bare chest. He grabbed a towel and mopped up the mess.

Halfway back to his bedroom, Ron paused at the fireplace. Maybe he should get in touch with Harry, find out if he could shed any light on the matter. Ron didn't know how Harry could explain away Ron's falling so heavily into slumber that he slid to the floor without waking, but he felt the need to at least discuss it with him. Ron stopped with his hand poised to light the fire.

"That's just what they need, Weasley," Ron said to the empty room, "you interrupting them in the middle of the night over a bad dream." The idea would have appealed to his practical joking twin brothers. But he knew Harry and Hermione. If they even suspected that something was wrong, they'd be at his side in a heartbeat.

Until he figured out exactly what was going on, his nocturnal activities would stay private. Because he couldn't shake the feeling that what he'd seen was no dream. Could Mariah be trying to contact him? Was she really in trouble? And if she was … what, Ron? You whisk off to the dungeon where she's being held captive and rescue her? That's about as plausible as Harry leaving Hermione for Hedwig.

If only he could contact her. If he could just get word from Mariah that she was fine, he could put it all behind him. But he couldn't. She'd disappeared six months ago, and he'd been unable to find any trace of her. Whatever was going on with her, she didn't want to be found. At least, not by him.

The last time he'd seen her had been the night of the wedding. After their exchange prior to the wedding ceremony, he had resolved to leave her alone as she'd requested. He didn't like it, but it seemed important to her, so he'd done as she asked. His resolve crumbled as Harry and Hermione had begun to dance.

Ron walked to the window and watched dawn break over the town. He could still hear the music in his head, still see Harry and Hermione swaying, their hands entwined and eyes seeing nothing but each other. Warmth had spread over him then, just as it did now.

But that night, the warmth had turned into a lump of emotion, a longing for what his best friends had found together. Instinctively, he'd glanced over at Mariah, surprised to see tears falling unnoticed down her cheeks. Silently, he'd led her from the table, into the garden area behind the hall and had drawn her into his arms. They hadn't spoken. He'd simply held her while she cried. After a few moments, he'd asked her why she'd left him so abruptly before.

"Ron, please," Mariah pleaded. "I told you I can't have contact with you. It's for your own good."

Ron felt fury rising within him, tired of being told what was best for him without any input. He let go of her and began to pace. "Well it doesn't feel too bloody good from where I'm standing, Mariah. Based on the tears on your face, you're not feeling too happy about it either. Why don't you tell me what's going on, and I'll decide for myself?"

Mariah looked at him for a full minute before heaving a great sigh and nodding. "Okay, but can we go somewhere else? Somewhere private?"

Seconds later, they were in Ron's old bedroom at the Burrow. It was the closest place he could think of that would be completely deserted as the whole family was at the reception.

"Okay," Mariah began, taking in a deep breath. "There was a reason I was with my parents the weekend I found Hermione. I had just received some unwelcome news. I'd found out I'm a Diviner."

Ron stared. Seventh year, they'd touched on different branches of Divination in Trelawney's class. From what he could remember, Diviners were witches, primarily American, that had some sort of telepathic powers. He couldn't see why that would cause her to run off and told her so.

"There are things about the Order that I cannot discuss, Ron. Just know that my leaving you that night was the best thing. The only thing. For both of us."

Mariah buried her face in her hands and wept silently. He was drawn to her like a magnet to its polar opposite.

"It's all right, Mariah," Ron soothed, gathering her into his arms and letting her tears soak his shoulder. When the crying had ebbed, she'd raised her bloodshot eyes to his. He meant to kiss her forehead, but somehow his mouth got lost and ended up on hers. He could no more have stopped himself kissing her after that than he could stop the tides.

And he hadn't stopped at kissing, either. But by the time he'd awoken the next morning, the pillow next to him had been empty, the tangled sheets cold. Mariah had left him again.

In every relationship he'd ever had, Ron had taken the lead. From first kiss to final fight, he'd called the shots. Not with Mariah, though, he snorted. While he'd kissed first, she'd fled soon after. Twice, he grimaced.

The first time she'd left him, he'd been hurt. The second, he'd been devastated. And since both times had been after rather intimate encounters, Ron was beginning to get a complex about that particular skill.

"This is pointless," Ron grumbled and headed back towards his bedroom, the now familiar ache pressing against his chest. "She left you, and you can't handle the rejection. Time to put her behind you and move on."

But he couldn't seem to follow his own advice. The odd sleep pattern persisted for three more days. Each night he'd sit in his chair, each morning he'd awaken on the floor exhausted. He knew the purple creases beneath his eyes were getting more and more pronounced, but the more he slept, the more fatigued he felt. He was just thankful that Harry and Hermione were wrapped up in the beginning of a new term at Hogwarts. They weren't popping in, their eyes full of questions he couldn't answer.

He'd decided to give it one more night. After that, he'd take out his decrepit Potions cauldron and attempt a sleeping draught. It didn't matter that Potions was the one class he'd been worst at. Anything had to be better than this.

He was standing at the window, a glass of warm pumpkin juice in his hand when he felt the hairs on his arm stand up. Before he could blink a blonde woman Apparated right in front of him. She was tall, her face a maze of cuts, scratches and bruises. The robes she wore were voluminous, but filthy and ragged. Her arms were outstretched; she was reaching for him.

She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a guttural croak, but somehow he heard the words anyway. Help me. Tell no one.

And then Mariah fell to the floor in a dead faint.