Every Little Thing

Part Two

He spent the better part of Tuesday--the day after Hermione’s letter arrived--thinking of ways to convince his mum to let him venture out on his own. She had been in mother hen mode since they’d returned from Hogwarts, and by nightfall he was contemplating sending an owl to Harry to see if he could borrow the Invisibility Cloak. But he didn’t want to have to tell Harry why he needed the Cloak, so he decided to trust his stealth and, should it come to that, his ability to talk his way out of a sticky situation.

On Wednesday he woke again with that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and his hands cold and clammy. He jumped out of bed and began composing a reply to Hermione, telling her he was too busy to talk, even though the lie bothered him.

By Thursday morning he still had not sent the letter and by nightfall he was half-glad because the prospect of a long walk to and from town had regained its appeal. He’d had two shouting matches with Percy (not an unimpressive feat, considering Percy had spent most of the day at the Ministry office), Ginny’s friend Nell Derby was over, and the twins had seen fit to hide a number of their magical inventions in his room (they wouldn’t say where) in an attempt to thwart their watchful and highly suspicious mother.

On Friday morning he realized that if he’d wanted to call things off for Saturday he should have sent Errol two days ago. By lunch he’d decided to buck up and by dinner he was feeling more or less committed. It would be good to talk to her about Harry, he supposed.

He had just dropped his head onto the pillow and curled his long body into its accustomed sleeping position when something occurred to him that made him sit bolt upright in horror.

He had no Muggle money.

Moreover, he hadn’t any idea how to get any.

Sinking back against his pillows, he thought hard. Harry had once given him a Muggle coin, which the Dursleys had sent him as a Christmas present their first year, but he’d already used it to call Harry two summers ago. His dad had some coins, of course, because his dad was keen on everything Muggle-related and besides, things like that were sometimes handy. They’d taken some to the Quidditch World Cup last summer as part of their disguises.

Strictly speaking, he could ask his dad for the money. No doubt he’d be more than happy to assist his son in his pursuit of understanding Muggle life…or whatever he imagined Ron’s determination to figure out the telephone to be about. But Ron hated to ask his dad for money, even relatively useless Muggle money.

He couldn’t just Transfigure a couple of Knuts because he wasn’t allowed to use magic outside of school and it struck him as dishonest. He was still sour about the leprechaun gold he’d given to Harry for his Omnioculars at the World Cup, which, unbeknownst to either of them, had turned into useless dust only a little while later.

Begging on the street came to mind, but he dismissed the idea immediately with disgust. No Weasley, his dad had said once, would ever beg for anything, neither for a Galleon nor his life. Ron couldn’t remember how old he’d been when he’d overheard his father make that oath--the memory was dim, so he couldn’t have been all that old--but he meant to adhere to it, too.

So, he couldn’t ask, he couldn’t create, and begging was out of the question.

He rolled onto his belly, folded his arms under his chin, and thought some more.

What would Harry do? Harry, who had more money than he knew what to do with, would probably have the solution in no time. And if he didn’t, well, no doubt someone or something, be it human or magical creature, would come rushing to his aid in the nick of time. Ron laughed at the thought, uncharitable as it was. Where was Dobby the House Elf when he was actually needed?

Joking aside, supposing he couldn’t get any Muggle money off the Dursleys and astonishingly, no one dropped by to save him, what would Harry do? Thought Ron, with his luck, his friend would probably find exactly what he needed just lying about and it would turn out to be a trap of some sort and he’d end up face-to-face with You-Know-Who and a legion of Death Eaters once again.

Forget Harry. What would practical, ever-so-clever Hermione do?

Well, she lived with Muggles; she wouldn’t need to do anything.

But just supposing her parents were off somewhere, she didn’t have access to a bank, and she’d just spent her last pound or whatever on a new book, what would she do?

Go to the library, of course.

The nearest wizard library was in Colchester, and Ron didn’t actually own any books about Muggles, but his dad did. Deciding it was wiser to get everything sorted out now than to leave it for morning, he got up and went downstairs.

There he found his parents still awake and in the kitchen, talking in low voices. They quieted when he entered.

“Don’t worry, didn’t hear anything,” he said brusquely.

His mother set down her coffee cup and smiled gently. “We weren’t talking about--”

“We were, Molly,” his father interrupted wearily.

“Arthur.” His wife shot him a warning glance, which he ignored.

“You deserve to know, Ron,” he said. “We were talking about what happened at Hogwarts this June.” Arthur Weasley’s eyes were wide and earnest. “I know Amos Diggory from the Ministry, of course, and, well…”

“Is he all right?” asked Ron.

“Frankly, no,” Mr Weasley said with a sigh. His gaze became fierce. “His son’s death just about destroyed him. He’s been back to work recently, but… You be careful, Ron. Because I couldn’t bear--” He choked on whatever he’d meant to say and looked away abruptly. His wife laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

They’d been like this since the return from Hogwarts. Ron couldn’t stand it. It embarrassed and frightened him. The Weasleys were a demonstrative family when it came to love and loyalty, but they tended to hide other emotions behind bravado, humour, and scalding tempers. Ron could not remember the last time he’d seen either of his parents cry. To stop them this time he went forward and awkwardly put his arms around his father’s shoulders.

“I’ll be careful, Dad,” he muttered.

“You’d just better,” Mrs Weasley said darkly, but the hand with which she tousled her son’s hair was gentle.

“I will,” he promised and, straightening, offered his parents a faltering smile.

The tense moment had passed. Mrs Weasley said, “What are you doing down here? I thought you went to bed.”

“Came to get a book,” he admitted, realizing belatedly how strange it sounded. His parents exchanged a look. “Are you all right, dear?” his mother asked anxiously.

The twins would have made some flippant remark about the end of the world, but Ron suspected that kind of thing would not go over well with his parents just then. So he only said, “I’m fine,” flashed them another smile which he hoped looked innocuous enough, and hurried into the living room, where his father kept most of his books.

He wasn’t completely sure what he was looking for. Something that would tell him about Muggles and their money: where they kept it, how to get it legally. He scanned the books’ spines and actually found himself missing the relative order of the Hogwarts library. Or maybe it was that he only ever went there with Hermione and she had the entire card catalogue memorised? His dad’s books were shelved haphazardly, some backward, some buried beneath others, not arranged in any particular order. Percy had alphabetised them once, he remembered, a few years ago, and his father had made him put them back because he claimed he couldn’t find anything.

He took Living With Muggles: A Year Without Magic by Stefanos of Dunfermline because he thought it sounded promising, and behind it found one of his dad’s old Muggle Studies textbooks from his own years at Hogwarts. Thinking that one might prove helpful as well, he pulled it off the shelf and flopped into the chair by the fireplace.

He turned to the index of Stefanos’s book first and looked up every reference to the word “money”. Stefanos talked about his grant, which had been in Muggle money. Ron flipped impatiently through those pages. He talked about the different pictures on the coins and what they meant. Ron flipped through those pages, too. There was a chapter about Muggle banks; they were completely inefficient in Stefanos’s opinion, the service slow and the security lax. In the end he’d hidden the money in his own house, protected by an elaborate array of (non-magical) traps--about which he was clearly very proud because he’d dedicated twenty pages to their description. Ron nearly ripped several pages out of the binding in his mounting frustration, though he did smile when Stefanos went into gleeful detail about the nasty things that would happen to any Muggle who bumbled into the traps.

By the time Ron finally tossed Living With Muggles aside, an hour had passed since his parents had checked in on him, still looking mildly concerned (his mum had attempted to feel his forehead but he’d shrugged her off in annoyance) and then gone up to bed. He leaned back in the chair, and glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. Eight of the clock’s nine golden hands pointed toward the word “home”, though for Charlie “home” meant Romania. The hand that bore the name William Weasley was pointed toward “travelling.”

Ron sighed and wondered what time it was in Egypt, if that was even where Bill was at the moment. Egypt wasn’t too many hours ahead, he remembered; probably they were just a few hours into the next day there. What was Bill doing, travelling, and at whose behest, the Gringotts goblins’ or Albus Dumbledore’s? He’d been travelling a lot, lately. Ron wondered if Pig was having trouble finding him; he ought to have reached him by now. So long as Bill’s hand didn’t move suddenly to “hospital”, “prison”, or “mortal peril”, though, Ron elected not to worry too much.

He had enough to worry about as it was, although some brotherly advice would not have been ill-received at that moment. With a reluctant groan, Ron grabbed up his father’s old textbook, propped it against his knees, and thumbed to the table of contents.

Kind of amusing to see his dad’s old textbook, he thought as he scanned promising-sounding chapters. The margins were crowded with young Arthur Weasley’s cramped, messy handwriting. There were inkblots everywhere and Ron had a sudden mental picture of his dad as a teenager--with his bald spot since, try as he might, Ron couldn’t envision him without it--waving his quill around enthusiastically, trying to get every exciting thought down before it escaped him. Most of what his dad had written was undecipherable scribble but there were some intriguing snatches like,

A.W. + N…something.

The second set of initials had been rendered nearly illegible by quill scratches. Who in the world was N? Some girl his dad had liked, apparently. Once, many years ago, his thin, balding, plug-collecting dad had been his age and had been interested in…girls. It was an odd revelation, although had anyone asked, he’d have been hard pressed to explain exactly what was so odd about it. Of course his dad had been young once. It was just…not something he’d ever really thought about before.

There were a few more initials, most of them blotted over or crossed out. His dad had had an interesting third year, or whenever it was he’d started taking Muggle Studies. Or maybe he’d just fantasised about having an interesting year.

He found the initials A.W. + M.H. in the chapter on Muggle mythology and superstition (or, the beliefs Muggles perpetuate in order to explain or deny the presence of magic). It took him a second to realize that M.H. was almost certainly his mother, since her surname had been Higgins before she married his father. He flushed as though he’d stumbled upon a secret--not a dirty one, just one that had not been intended for his eyes.

He knew his parents had met at Hogwarts, and that they’d started dating there. He heard his mum once telling Ginny and Hermione about a Love Potion she’d brewed once as a young girl. “I’d meant to give it to Will Spens,” she’d giggled to the girls, “even though Love Potions were technically, well…we weren’t supposed to be brewing them. I’d only been going to give him a drop, just so he’d notice me. He was quite nice-looking--the Keeper for Gryffindor, too. There was going to be this party before the start of winter holidays. I just wanted him to ask me to dance. But I lost my nerve at the last minute. It didn’t matter,” she’d finished, smiling broadly and flushing ever-so-slightly, “because Arthur, well, he asked me to go with him…”

What if his dad hadn’t asked his mum, though, he wondered. What kind of flaming row might have resulted, and would it have culminated with one bellowing at the other, for all the dorm to hear, that if he didn’t like the way things had turned out, he knew what to do next time, didn’t he? That, somehow, Ron could picture.

He’d been about to turn the page--he didn’t really want to think about his parents’ teen years at that hour--when something else caught his eye.

There was some boxed-off text, the heading of which read: Traditional Magical Items in Muggle Mythology. And there was a list. One of the items on the list was “the Wishing Well.” Ron read,

Yet another inanimate object many Western Muggles believe to be imbued with the power to grant wishes (see Chapter Eight). Traditionally, Muggles throw coins into the well whilst formulating in their minds a desired object or occurrence. This practice dates back to…

Ron gripped the book tightly, leaned forward, and reread the print. He blinked several times, shook himself, and peered at it again. It said what it had said the first and second times. He wasn’t dreaming. That was it. That was the answer. And it was so easy.

He snapped the book shut, set it on the carpet, and went back to the shelf. He found the atlas and threw himself back into the chair.

“Is there a well in Ottery St. Catchpole?” he asked, his voice cracking with excitement.

The book flopped open on his lap and the pages began to turn, rapidly. The blur of words and pictures made him dizzy, so he looked at the clock (it was now well past midnight) and only turned back when the mad flutter of pages had ceased.

He found himself looking at a highly detailed map of Ottery St. Catchpole, the town nearest the Burrow. He scanned the map and found, illuminated, a small circle beside a larger rectangle. Squinting, he could just make out the words Rose and Thistle Inn above the rectangle, and above the circle, wishing well. Chuckling triumphantly, he noted the name of the road that went past the inn, and how to get to it from the Burrow. It was a fair distance, but he reckoned he’d be back before tea if he left early and did everything quickly. He’d use the telephone from which he’d called Harry that time two years ago. He remembered where it was.

Still chuckling, Ron closed the atlas and returned all the books to their proper shelves. He had done it, he thought rather dazedly, as he made his tired way back up the stairs to his bedroom. Without any help, and without any near-disasters, he had done it. Wait until he rang Hermione. Wouldn’t she be impressed? She might even (perish the thought!) tell him so.

The instant before sleep claimed him, it occurred to Ron that it was only the easiest part he’d gotten through. The hardest was yet to come.

****

He woke uncharacteristically early the next morning, showered, and then dressed as the sky lightened. He’d have made it out of the house unnoticed had he not spent so much time coaxing his hair--which usually was fairly well-behaved--into shape and contending with the pimple that had materialised at some point during the mere four hours he’d been asleep. By the time he made it to the stairs, the rest of the Burrow was astir; Mr Weasley and Percy were arguing loudly outside the washroom door; Ginny was demanding a confession from whoever had finished the toothpaste and forgotten to replace it; and the sizzle and smell of bacon and eggs floated up from the kitchen.

Ron went down the stairs quietly, hoping his mother would be so preoccupied with breakfast that she wouldn’t be able to stop him when he made his dash for the front door. It wasn’t his mother who heard him and barred his escape, though.

It was the twins.

They were both still in their rumpled robes and pyjamas, their hair a mess of flame-coloured tangles. They looked as though they’d just woken up five minutes ago.

“Top o’ the morning, little brother,” Fred said pleasantly, while George crunched on a piece of toast. “And where might you be bound?”

“Who says I’m bound anywhere?” Ron realised, as George swallowed his toast and grinned slyly, that he could have said that a lot more convincingly.

“Call it a hunch,” said George as he licked his fingers clean of breadcrumbs.

“Come on, brilliant one,” Fred said as Ron scowled, “it’s half-nine, you’re dressed, and you’re tiptoeing downstairs instead of galumphing.”

“I don’t galumph--”

His brothers exchanged a look.

“Look,” Ron muttered. “All right, never mind. Okay, yeah, I need to leave the house without mum knowing. Would you let me go?”

“I’m not so sure that’s wise,” George said with mock solemnity. “It’s a dangerous world out there, and you’re just a young ‘un.”

“Oh, for--”

“Quiet,” Fred advised, “or mum’ll hear.”

Ron shut his mouth, folded his arms over his chest, and glared down at his elder brothers.

“Don’t pout,” said Fred, smiling again, “or your face’ll stick like that.”

“But he’s always pouting,” George pointed out. “Maybe his face already has stuck.”

“Good point. We should test that theory, don’t you think? I say we tickle him. If he screams we’ll know we were wrong. If he doesn’t…well, it’s not as though no one warned him.”

They started forward. Ron jumped back a step and held up a hand warningly. “Don’t--”

They stopped.

“So, give us something else to do,” said George.

“I don’t have time!” Ron spluttered, wondering wildly if there was any chance he might survive a rush at his brothers. Thinking he probably would not, he glanced behind him nervously. Any moment his father or Percy would come down the stairs and he’d never get away. “Please!”

Fred and George glanced at each other in alarm. “Did he just say what I thought he said?”

“Sounded like it.”

“Look--” Ron began. They turned back to him. “Look--” He stopped himself again. Was he actually going to plead with his brothers? Now that he was fifteen, had helped save his school twice, taken one of the prettiest girls in his year to the Yule Ball, met Viktor Krum, hexed Malfoy, and stood by his friends through adversity, was he really going to beg his brothers to leave him alone? Fred had been picking on him since he was a baby. He wasn’t a baby any more.

“Get out of my way,” Ron said quietly but with force. “I mean it. I said ‘please’ once, I’m not going to say it again. I really need to go now.”

“You know, Ron,” George said concernedly, “there are a number of fine loos in this house. They can’t all be occupied at--”

“I mean it!” He’d hissed the words, but they’d come out as dangerously as he’d hoped. His brothers stared at him. “I’m going into the town and I need to go before mum finishes breakfast and everyone comes tromping down.”

“What’s in town?” George asked, and, “Hey, mate, we’re not stopping you,” he added quickly as Ron turned narrowed eyes on him.

“It’s none of your business.”

“Excuse me,” said Fred as seriously as Ron had ever heard him speak, “you may have…found your balls and all, but you’re still our little brother. If anything happened to you, we just couldn’t bear it--”

“That’s right,” George jumped in, “it would mean we’d have no more younger brothers to pick on.”

“--So perhaps you can understand our keen desire to keep you intact. Now, you may have missed the finer points of Dumbledore’s farewell speech last week, but it seems there’s a stupefyingly Dark wizard on the loose and he’s after your best friend.”

Ron rolled his eyes, aware that seconds were slipping by and that it didn’t take that long to fry bacon and eggs, even for as large a family as his own. “I’m not going to go looking for You-Know-Who.” Belatedly, he wished he’d been able to say the name. That would have stumped them. “I’m just going to use a telephone.”

“That’s stupid,” said George. “Just use the fireplace.”

“She doesn’t have a fireplace.”

Fred’s eyes lit up. “She?”

“And anyway,” Ron went on, glaring at Fred even as his ears began to burn, “I want to talk to her alone.”

Fred and George exchanged another look. Ron saw their eyebrows go up and grins sprawl across their faces.

“Who is she?” George asked. “That tasty bit of skirt you took to the Yule Ball? Quite keen on you, she was, after that business in the lake--”

“No, I know who she is,” Fred interrupted. “She’s--get ready for it--Hermione Granger.”

Ron bristled. “Don’t say anything,” he warned through clenched teeth. “I hexed Malfoy. I’ll hex you.”

“Why would you do that?” Fred looked up at him bemusedly. “Hermione’s a cracker. Don’t muck that one up, mate.”

“What did you think,” said George, grinning, “we wouldn’t approve? Come on. She’s great! She hit Malfoy, once. D’you remember that, Fred?”

“Celebrated its anniversary, I did. Looked nice at the Yule Ball, too--”

“--She went with Krum--”

“--All them pretty girls, and he chose her. How about all them points she raked in for old Gryff?”

“And that spell she put on Harry’s glasses at that match with Hufflepuff? Handled that Skeeter creature, too.”

“Merlin, I’ll pull her if he doesn’t!”

They beamed up at Ron.

“I--you--she--what--”

“Need a diversion, mate?” Fred asked pleasantly.

“A--what?”

“Diversion. Mum’s in the kitchen. She’ll hear the door. Want us to make sure her attention is, er, elsewhere while you’re making your getaway?”

It was Ron’s turn to stare.

“Hey, this offer expires, Ron,” George laughed. “You going to take it or--”

“Yes!” Ron gasped, grasping the banister for support. “Only--” He frowned. “What sort of diversion are you going to make?”

Fred’s grin broadened. “That we cannot tell you. Believe us, you will know. After that, you are on your own. Don’t expect us to bail you out later, when mum finds out. And don’t muck this up! You’re well in there. C’mon, George.”

Ron waited on the stairs while his brothers went into the kitchen. He heard them greet their mother, heard her scold as they swiped something from the table. That wasn’t their diversion, was it? No, that wasn’t their style… He waited some more, listening as their footsteps sounded against the kitchen tiles, then the wood of the hallway floor, then were muffled by carpet. Had they gone into the living room?

They most certainly had. The subsequent explosion rattled the walls and nearly threw Ron from the stairs. There was a clatter in the kitchen as pots and pans were dropped.

“FRED! GEORGE!” Mrs Weasley shrieked.

Sending his brothers a silent and heartfelt thanks and good luck, Ron vaulted down the last few steps and was out the door in seconds.