A Dish Best Served Cold

The Burrow was dark when Ron appeared in the front yard. Carefully he made his way to the front door and stepped inside. Three floors above he heard the rattling of chains as the family ghoul ambled about. Frantically Ron ran through the house looking for signs of someone, but no one was there. Back down in the kitchen Ron slumped into a chair. Within him emotions raged like a storm-tossed sea. Harry Potter, hero to the wizarding world and more importantly, his best friend in the whole world, was dead. Betrayed and murdered by Draco Malfoy.

"Dammit Harry," Ron shouted through his tears. "Why couldn't you and Hermione listen to me?" He choked and wiped at his eyes in futilely. "Hermione, where are you now?" He choked on a sob and began to bring himself under control. Hermione was out there, Merlin knew where, and in danger. Some part of him told him that Hermione was probably doing a better job of taking care of herself than he would; but another part just couldn't accept not knowing where she was and if she was safe.

Ron got up from the table and washed his face in the kitchen sink. As he held handfuls of cold water to his face, he chilled the emotions coursing through him and steeled his resolve. He had to find a way to repay Draco Malfoy. He would finish the school year, there was only a week left and only one thing left to do; he would take his N.E.W.T.'s. Hermione had made them study for months. Hermione, he had to find her, make sure she was okay. He toweled his face dry and dropped the towel over the back of a chair.

"Hermione, where did you go? You're the smartest witch in the world, so where did you go? Where would I go if I was the smartest wizard in the world?" Ron grabbed a spring peach from the counter top fruit bowl and ate thoughtfully. "Hogwarts. You went back to Hogwarts, didn't you." Ron looked at the foreign wand in his hand. Would it be powerful enough to get him back to Hogwarts? "You can't Apparate on the grounds of Hogwarts." Hermione's words echoed again through his mind. "You're with me everywhere I go. Damn you. Why did you let him come between us?" Ron of course knew that it was more his fault than hers, but it was more fuel for the fire. One more thing Draco would pay for.

He couldn't stay here any longer; he had to go find her. Grabbing the wand he had taken from Draco, he Apparated to Hogsmeade. He looked down at his Muggle watch, a gift from Harry two Christmases before. 10:30. Six hours since the four of them had descended into the twisted maze of pipes and passages beneath the school. Two hours since Harry and died and the world had gone to Hell. Ron knew time was of the essence and so he ran full out toward the school.

Ron was bent over, clutching at a stitch in his side and barely able to breathe. It was a good run from Hogsmeade to the school. He had ducked down behind a tree as soon as he had recognized the skulking form of the Potions Master. "Professor Snape! Professor Snape!" Ron recognized the voice as being that of Justin Finch-Fletchley, the Hufflepuff Prefect.

"What is it?"

"Sir, they've found Draco."

"Where?"

"In the dungeons sir. He's going on about the Harry Potter and You-Know-Who, sir. He says Harry and Ron and Hermione are dead, sir." Ron listened in stunned disbelief.

"What about Pansy and the others?"

"Nothing yet sir." Still unable to breathe, Ron couldn't shout to alert Snape before Justin and the Professor took off running toward the school. He considered giving chase, but now he knew Hermione wasn't at the school. The fact that Pansy wasn't there either also worried him. Ron took several deep breaths and asked himself again where Hermione might have gone. With a start he realized she had done the same thing he had, she had gone home. With a flick of his wrist, he disappeared.

When he arrived at Hermione's he had to look around and make sure he was in the right place. It was an extremely noisy and busy area. The property was surrounded by yellow tape and several men in blue uniforms were walking around. The Granger's two-story Victorian home was simply gone. All that remained was the charred and blackened brick fireplace and part of the attached wall. What the hell..."HERMIONE!"

"Can I help you, son?" a man in a tan trench coat with a thick handlebar mustache and salt-and-pepper hair asked.

"I...I'm looking for someone. A girl, about 5'4", bushy brown hair, about seventeen years old. Her name is Hermione Granger."

"Got a girl matching that description, says her name is Anne though. No ID, nothing. She showed up here about an hour ago. You family?"

"Friend. Is she okay?"

"Considering her entire family was killed in an explosion this afternoon, not really. Follow me. By the way, what's your name son?"

"Ron, Ron Weasley." Numbly, Ron followed the detective to the back of a plain white car. She was sitting in the back, talking to a middle-aged woman.

"Wait here." Ron leaned against another patrol car and watched as the detective walked around the white car and tapped on the window. The middle-aged woman got out, closed the door, and spoke briefly with the detective. "Come here, Ron." He approached cautiously. "Ron, this is Margaret Carter, Victim's Assistance."

"Pleased to meet you." The woman was serious in her demeanor though her smile was quite soft and gentle. She extended her hand and Ron shook it. "Detective Smythe tells me you´re a friend of Anne?"

"Yeah, we go to school together."

"Well, she's in bad shape. She hasn't said anything since I got here. She finally cried herself to sleep a couple of minutes ago. Try not to wake her, but I'm sure a friendly face would be good for her right now." With a sympathetic smile she opened the car door and Ron stuck his head in.

"Caesar's ghost," Ron muttered as he crawled into the car. Hermione looked like death warmed over. Her hair was straggled; it looked like she had been pulling on it. She was still covered in mud and muck. Her jeans were torn. Worst of all though was her face. Her eyes were swollen and red, as was her nose. Her skin was pale and blotchy. Even in her sleep she sniffled and whimpered. Ron crawled the rest of the way in and Margaret closed the door behind him. Ron slid over next to her and put an arm around her. With his other hand he reached up and wiped away some stray tears that were leaking down her cheeks.

Her eyes fluttered open at his touch. She stared unbelievingly at him for several seconds. "Hermione, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" As soon as he asked it, he knew it was the stupidest thing he had ever said to her, and that was saying something. Without a word she flung herself against his chest and wept as he softly stroked her hair and muttered soothing words. Ron was amazed that he could be so calm and so kind as his blood boiled in his veins. He was going to kill Draco Malfoy with his bare hands.

------------

"NO!" Hermione's anguished scream rent the oppressive quiet of Ron's solitude. Ron leapt over the empty, unruffled bed and sat down on Hermione's bed, drying his hands on the bathrobe that had been provided.

"I'm here, I'm right here." He spoke in quiet tones. He noticed her eyes were wide as she grabbed at him. She wrapped her arms around his ribs and seemed to be trying to crawl into his lap. Ron pushed himself up farther on the bed and pulled her to him. She curled up in a ball and leaned against him. He wrapped his arms around her in a protective embrace and whispered soothing words to her. For half an hour he stroked her hair and whispered quietly to her as the morning sun streamed through the window and shined in his weary eyes.

"Where are we?" she finally asked in a quiet, ragged voice.

"Some place called the Hilton. Margaret put us up here for the night since neither one of us has any ID or money." He reached down and brushed his thumb across her cheek. She felt small and weak against him. He considered that odd. Never, at any time in all the time he had known her would he have ever considered her weak. Yet now, he could think of no other word for it. He wished that he could lend her strength, somehow give a piece of himself to her. However, he had no idea how to do that now, so he simply hugged her again.

"We have to get back to the school, the professors will be looking for us."

"No, they aren't." He felt her sit up sharply. "Draco's told everyone we died down there with Harry. Besides, we can't go back yet. We're meeting with Mrs. Carter and detective Smythe in an hour."

"Ron, we have to get back. If they think we're dead..."

"We have to set it right, I know. Right now though, we have to get out of the hands of the Muggle authorities. They just want to get statements from each of us this morning and help you get your ID and affairs in order. If we just take off right now..."

"They'll start looking for us. Muggle cops looking for Wizard students, not a good idea." Hermione nodded her head then rested it back against Ron's chest. How terrible am I? Ron thought to himself. His best friend, his only friend, was leaning against him for comfort against the incredible wrongs that had been done to her; and all he could think of was how warm she was against the bare skin where his robe had fallen open. He shook his head violently to clear the traitorous thoughts.

Hermione looked up at him with a questioning expression. "Nothing, just tired." He wanted to head off any questions before they were asked. It was easier to lie to her indirectly, and he had plenty of practice at it. He pushed her away gently and extracted himself from the bed. He grabbed a robe and towel from the rack and extended them to her. "Shower's free."

With seeming reluctance Hermione crawled off the bed and took the proffered items. "Where's my wand?"

"On the floor of the Chamber of Secrets. My wand is on the bathroom sink, feel free to use it." She nodded and closed the bathroom door, Ron's wand in her hand. As soon as the door closed Ron changed back into his clothes from the night before, which he had casting cleaning charms on when Hermione had awoken earlier. He opened the door out into the hall and saw a newspaper lying atop a tray of discarded food in front of the room across from theirs. Ron grabbed the paper and flopped down in a comfy chair by the window.

"Ron!"

"Yeah, wha'?" Ron's eyes snapped open. Hermione had hold of his arm and was shaking him gently. "Sorry, must've nodded off there."

"How much sleep did you get last night?" Hermione asked, concern mixing in amongst her bedraggled features.

"How long have you been in the shower?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

"Forty-five minutes or so."

"About forty-five minutes then." Hermione looked about to say something, but he stood up and dropped the paper on the table. "You woke up every time I let go of your hand. After about the fourth or fifth time I just decided to stay up with you."

"Thank you," she said in a quiet voice.

"It was the least I could do. You stayed up with me and talked late into the night when Charlie died. You even came to check on me when the twins' shop blew up, and we weren't even on speaking terms then." He reached out and cradled her cheek in his hand. "That's what friends are for." He glanced down at his watch. "We need to get a move on, we're supposed to meet the detective downstairs in five minutes."

"Leave the wands and cloaks here, we don't want anything that will draw unwanted attention." Ron was about to disagree with her, but decided she knew more about Muggle police than he did.

Half an hour later they were being led through the halls of the local Constabulary Headquarters. Mrs. Carter led Hermione into a room, while Detective Smythe led Ron to another room. Ron looked around the room as they walked in. Unlike Hermione's, this room had no outside windows, just a piece of large dark glass on one wall overlooking a table with three chairs. "Have a seat, Ron." Ron sat down on one side of the table while the detective sat down opposite him and opened a notebook. "Ron, what's your full name, just for the record; and when were you born?"

"Ronald Arthur Weasley, March 1^st, 1980."

"Where do you go to school?"

Ron paused for a second, thinking about how to answer this without raising suspicions. "Hogwarts Academy, in Scotland."

"Why are you going to school in Scotland? You look like an Irish lad; and Weasley would be a Welsh name, wouldn't it."

"Maybe. I know my family is pretty old, I don't know where we originated from though." The questioning continued along these lines for the better part of half an hour until someone came and knocked on the door. The detective slipped out and returned a few minutes later.

"Ron, we have a problem. There's no record anyone named Ronald Weasley being born in 1980. We can't find any record of a school named Hogwarts in Scotland. So what say you tell me the truth?" Ron looked across the table at the man he had thought friendly until now. He dropped a file on the table. "This is the arson investigator's preliminary report. What do you think this tells me, Ron?"

"No idea at all." Ron answered with as much sincerity as he could.

"It tells me that this was no accident." The detective began to walk around the table toward Ron. "This tells me that somebody was in the house, that somebody cut the gas line in the kitchen, and that somebody triggered the explosion while the Grangers were in the house. I'd almost be willing to bet that when the coroner's report comes back, that it tells me they were dead before the house blew up." He leaned over Ron's shoulder, invading his private space and speaking directly into Ron's ear. "I've seen the way you are with her. The way you're so gentle, and so solicitous of her. Like you're trying to get back into her good graces."

The detective moved to the other side of Ron's head and spoke into his other ear, setting his hand firmly on Ron's shoulder. "You want to know what I think happened? I think you want Miss Granger to love you, but she likes somebody else. So you set up this elaborate plan that will make her turn to you. You kill her family, then just happen to show up, hundreds of miles away from where you 'go to school' so that you can be there to comfort her in her hour of need." Detective Smythe spun around and sat down on the table facing Ron, leaning down very close so that his breath would invade Ron's eyes and nostrils. "We probably gave you everything you wanted, didn't we? You spent the night with her in a hotel room. She was grieving and probably spent the night wrapped in your arms. You rubbed her back and stroked her hair, probably left gentle kisses on her forehead. You were the absolute soul of courtesy and the supportive friend in her hour of need. Because you hope that she will return your affection. You can't wait to feel her in your arms again, can you?"

Ron shot up out of his chair. "It's not like that at all!"

"Really, then tell me how it is, Mr. Weasley." Ron looked up to see that another man in a two-piece suit and white shirt had walked in.

Ron looked at the man that had just walked in. "I can't." His shoulders slumped and he fell back into the chair.

"Why not?" Detective Smythe leaned down close again. "The truth is even worse? She left you because you were abusing her? So you betray her and kill her family so she comes back to you? You are one sick fuck." After eight hours of being locked in this room with a virtual parade of detectives taking his story, Ron told them the truth. This earned him a few punches to the ribs and a couple of slaps to the face, but no water and no food. After another ten hours he was cried out, unable to see straight from the stifling heat and dehydration. He couldn't even count how many times he had told them all about Draco and Harry and Voldemort and the Death Eaters. And every time it only earned him another slap, or another screaming tirade from the latest "bad cop" that was sure he had done it.

Ron was starting to seriously consider telling them what they wanted to hear, just so that they'd leave him alone. Every time he thought his reserve had run out though, he'd mention Draco's name and the fires of revenge would stoke and give him just a little more strength. After another hour even Draco's name couldn't help him anymore. All he had then was her face, and the memory of Harry's shining, implacable eyes. For another hour his friends propped up his sagging mental stores and crumbling resolve. He was wondering how Sirius had done it, had survived under the constant barrage of accusations. He knew he was innocent, but now even he was beginning to doubt himself.

There was yet another knock at the door to the small room. A young man entered the room and spoke to one of the detectives. Ron couldn't even keep all of them straight anymore. The detective spoke in harsh tones to the younger man, "Stall him, all I need is another thirty minutes and I'll have what I need."

"Detective, he has a bench order. Either you give me solid evidence that I can charge Mr. Weasley with now, or you have to let him walk. I've seen what you've got, and I am not walking into court with that pile of shite." The younger man slapped an envelope against the detective's chest. "Let him go. Keep him under surveillance if you want; but you have to let him go."

The detective turned and stalked to the table. "Alright weasel, your girlfriend's lawyer got you off this time. But don't go anywhere; I've got two eyes on you, all the time. When you slip up, I've got your number." The younger man came over and pulled Ron out of his seat and out into the hall. Ron felt like he had been dipped in an ice bath because it was so much cooler in the hallway than it had been in the interrogation room.

"Thank you," Ron said painfully around his dry and swollen tongue.

"Don't thank me yet. When we find the evidence that links you to this, I'm going to put you away for two lifetimes." He pushed Ron toward a door. "Go in and wash up, you look like shite." Ron stood before the wide mirror. His eyes were sunken and hollow, his hair stuck out ten ways from Sunday, his coloring was pale and his freckles stood out like angry red pockmarks on his skin. His stomach rumbled ferociously as he turned on the faucet. He stuck his head under the tap, feeling the cold water running over his scalp and lowering his body temperature.

He was vaguely aware of the door opening and the sound of leather soles slapping on the tile floor. "Two eyes, all the time weasel-boy." Ron yanked his head out from under the tap, cutting his scalp in the process. It was detective Smythe again. "I just talked to the coroner's office. The report will be done by noon, and then I'm coming to get you. You're going to pay for this you sick bastard. Justice will get served."

From somewhere deep inside, in that core that still knew he was innocent, he pulled a response to the detective's sneering remark. "You're right about that, justice will get served." Ron stood up and tried to walk to the door with some modicum of dignity, but his knees gave way and he collapsed against the door. The door was pushed open and the young man who had rescued him once was standing in the hallway looking at him. Between them stood a man of middle years and imposing stature. He reached down to offer Ron a hand up.

"Ron Weasley?" Ron nodded his head weakly. The man wrapped a large hand around Ron's arm and pulled him up. "It's okay son, just lean on me, we'll get you out of here." The man turned his head to look at the younger man. "Counselor Wetherby, I will see you in court; but not for the reason you think. This boy was in your care for twenty-one hours and look at the condition he's in. I've wanted to catch you guys in a brutality case for years. I own you this time Wetherby, I own you." He slid an arm across Ron's back, supporting him under the arms. "And I want my niece's property returned to her, now."

"I don't think so, Counselor Granger. That's evidence."

"That's a crock and you know it. There was no warrant and it's not evidence. It's two twelve-inch pieces of wood and two cloaks. So why don't you just hand them over, and I might take it into consideration when I'm looking at this case for settlement versus dragging the police force through a public mud-bath." The younger man stalked off down the hall. Counselor Granger helped Ron slowly down the hall to where the other man stood waiting with a large bag.

"Counselor Granger, I want a gentleman's agreement that you'll accept a reasonable settlement on this issue if we don't find evidence linking the boy to the explosion. If we do, all bets are off." He extended a hand to the larger man.

"Done," he extended his own hand and firmly shook the proffered hand. "I'll be in contact with your office within the next two days." He took the bag and escorted Ron outside to a small red car. "Climb in, we'll have you safe in a bed in no time." Ron collapsed into the car and instantly fell asleep.