The End

Chapter Nine: There’s No Friend Like an Old Friend.

Well, here it is, the final chapter of I Will be Waiting, and waiting you have been! I have lots of really good excuses for the delay and even more really poor ones! :o) However it’s here now and I hope it lives up to everyone’s expectations. My disclaimer from the first chapter covers this one too.

There is a whole segment towards the end of this chapter I’m sure you will recognise, which belongs to the pen of J.K. Rowling and is lifted from chapter 6 of The Philosopher’s Stone, with only the point-of-view being altered. I most certainly do not claim that segment as my own work (and in fact if any other parts read anything like as well, that is due to my wonderful betas!)

~*~

A School Remembers

The young man was sprinting across the school grounds, his bag bouncing heavily against his leg with each pounding step.

At least I had good sense to start getting changed in my room, he thought as he tried to clasp the cloak around his neck and at the same time stop his bag from doing too much damage, all the while muttering under his breath. “I can’t believe Atropa decided that today - of all days - was the best time to discuss my detention!” A detention he didn’t really deserve. Robbie Lynch was just as much in the wrong as he was, but Auntie Belladonna thought otherwise. If family favouritism wasn’t frustrating enough, she had to be aware that he had more important things to do today! She also knew that the Head Girl would kill him if he was late, which he now was, thanks to the interfering hag…

He wasn’t as lax as he liked to appear and actually worked bloody hard when he thought nobody was looking, and keeping that fact hidden was bloody hard work in itself! thought Mick, but The Head Girl was unlikely to believe him (at least straight away) when he turned up late. She was far too easily exasperated by his apparent devil-may-care attitude enough without the added pressures today would certainly bring.

Those very same pressures were about to get worse.

Mick groaned as he glanced across to the Quidditch pitch. The place was teeming; he knew the professors had installed extra stands, but he hadn’t expected this many people. He swore, as his sweaty hands slipped on his bag strap as he took in the bulging stands, Pat was going to have kittens when she found out. Speaking of which… he thought as he doubled his pace and closed in on the last few yards before the changing rooms.

As he slipped into the room, hoping to go unobserved, and noted with relief that Pat wasn’t there yet, he leaned back against the door to catch his breath.

“I’d be quick about sitting down if I was you, she’s still in there,” piped up one of the Ravenclaw Chasers, nodding towards the girls’ changing room.

Nodding his thanks, Mick squeezed by a couple of the new players for the day and plonked himself down casually on the only spare chair and fought to bring his breathing under control as the sprint across the grounds began to take effect. It wouldn’t do for Pat to notice his lack of breath; she’d be sure to put two and two together. She was far too astute for his own good sometimes, he thought with a wry smile on his face.

“Cutting it a bit fine aren’t you, Asquith?” called Robbie Lynch from across the room.

“Well thanks to your Auntie Bella,” grumbled Mick, before grinning and adding, “and having to fight my way through my thousands of admirers outside of course, I think I did bloody brilliant to get here at all!”

Laughing, Robbie retorted, “Like you have any admirers at all, never mind thousands…”

“Care to stick your head out of the door, Lynch?” challenged Mick.

Robbie just shook his head and returned to stuffing his school robes in his bag before throwing it under the bench and sitting down.

Mick was just considering whether to tell Pat about the crowds he had spotted outside when she stepped into the room. As soon as he saw her he knew he couldn’t do it; the poor girl was a bag of nerves and giving her time to worry about it wasn’t going to help. She had appeared to stroll confidently into the room, much as she did before any normal match. But this wasn’t any normal match, and Mick had spotted the slight hesitation in her step as she saw the assembled players. He noted most of the others hadn’t spotted anything wrong, but he had known Pat far too long for her to fool him.

~*~

“Reet naw, listen up! We orl kna wha we’re ‘ere for.” Patricia Burgess was standing at the front of the magically enlarged changing room, addressing the crowd of thirty or more of the school’s best (or at least the most enthusiastic) Quidditch players. She was more nervous than she could ever remember being before. This was the most important game she had ever played in, never mind organised and there was the mob in front of her. Pat was used to addressing her own seven players that made up the Gryffindor team, but this was just ridiculous, she had never spoken to so many people at once. Ah knew ah shudna’ have ‘ad tha’ toast, she thought, as her stomach lurched wildly. What do ah sez naw? she muttered quietly, as her ability to think left her.

Again sensing her increasing unease, Mick, deciding to attempt to break the thick tension in the room and in turn hopefully help Pat a little, clapped his hands gleefully and piped up, “Thank Merlin! We’re going to be saved having to translate one of her rants. Merlin’s providence must be shining on us today!”

The initial shocked silence at his words gave way to sniggerings as they saw Pat smile slightly, and soon developed into raucous laughter. As he lounged back in his chair the Hufflepuff keeper winked at Pat, and she smiled warmly back in return.

Letting the laughter settle down, Pat watched Mick out of the corner of her eye: he now slouched back in his chair, legs crossed at the ankles, the Hufflepuff giving off an aura of aloofness and more than a slight dash of cheek. But to those who knew him properly, like she did, the Keeper was an insightful and intelligent - if occasionally infuriating - friend; catching him looking at her, she gave him a grin and continued on with her speech.

“Aye, thank you for thy contribution, Mick.” As she spoke she rolled her eyes dramatically - causing fresh sniggers - and slipped her hands into her robe pockets and began to pace about the room.

It hadn’t been unknown for the Headmaster to slip into the changing rooms before the game and offer up some advice for the teams. Considering this game was here to remember the fact that he wouldn’t be doing that any more, made his lack of presence even more noticeable.

What she wouldn’t give for him to drop in now.

“Naw, as Ah sez, we orl kna wha we’re ere for. We’re ere ta ‘onour t’Eadmaster’s memory. So, ah expect us ta do dis proper. Non of yer namby - pamby moves!” She challenged the Beaters who were all sitting together over by the lockers. “Ah want good ‘ard plays, firm tackles,” Pat continued as she turned her attention to the Chasers. “Rememba we’re not playing’ sum piddlin game o’ Quodpot here.” Pat paused for a moment to let her words settle in. “We’re playing QUIDDITCH! WHA’ ARE WE PLAYING?”

Caught up in their Head Girl’s passion, the whole room responded at once.

“QUIDDITCH!!”

“Pardon?” Pat cupped a hand to her ear fighting a grin. “WHA’ ARE WE PLAYING?”

“QUIDDITCH!!” the room bellowed as at least half of them leapt to their feet.

“Naw gerrout there ‘n do t’Eadmaster proud!” She spun round and pointed to the door as she yelled her final instruction, no longer bothering to hide her grin.

Standing by the door, Pat watched them all file out grinning and jostling each other,tapping anyone who still looked nervous encouragingly on the shoulder and reminding them to have fun.

She was about to leave the changing rooms herself when she felt a hand on her own shoulder; it was Mick.

“You did all right, Pat. It’ll be fine, they’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. Now make sure you enjoy it as well.” With a final squeeze of her shoulder, Mick turned and walked from the room.

“Mick?” she called out before he disappeared round the corner.

He turned to look at her quizzically over his shoulder.

“Ta for earlier, Mick, it… well… thy support, it means a lot.”

Mick flashed one of his trademark lazy grins at her before replying, “Now don’t be getting soft on me ya big Yorkshire pudding,” then switching to a huge natural smile as he pulled her into a quick hug, before he continued to make his way across to the pitch.

A moment later, as she too stepped through the wards and out onto the pitch, Pat gasped; the noise was amazing and the stands were unbelievably full. Scrub that, she thought, Thee wor soddin ‘eavin!

~*~

Mine’s A Pint

“You took your time.”

“Blame your wife, it’s her fault.”

“Yeah, she did mention something.”

“Did she now?” huffed the old man good-naturedly as he sat down and pinched his friend’s pint.

“Oi, get your own!”

“I just did.”

“Prat!”

“Pillock!”

“Pilchard!”

“Toss… Pil - what? “

“Pilchard, any of various small marine fishes related to the herrings, especially a commercially important edible species, Sardina pilchardus, of European waters - “

“I know what a sodding pilchard is! But what kind of insult is that? You’re well out of practice, mate.”

“The kind of insult that gets you to shut up and go to the bar,”

Ron, electing not to respond, just snatched the glass and stomped over to the bar, all the while grumbling under his breath.

It was an hour later as he sat back down with their third round of drinks and handed Harry his, revelling in the sheer warmth and comradeship that just being back with his oldest friend generated, that Ron realised that neither of them had yet mentioned what Harry was actually doing there…

~~~

Ron’s Twenty Ninth Summer

The quiet Saturday afternoon found an unshaven and ‘leisurely’ dressed Ronald Weasley sitting with his chair leaning back and his feet crossed comfortably at the ankles, resting on his best friend’s kitchen table, while he fed his godson, Arthur.

“If Ginny catches you like that with ‘her baby’ she will kill you, you do realise…” said the baby’s equally unshaven and scruffy father, Harry Potter, apparently unworried about his only son’s safety, concentrating instead on cooking a late breakfast for the two of them.

“Sticking Charm,” replied Ron unconcernedly, and to emphasise the point rocked back and forwards, the chair remaining completely still. “Used it all the time with Christopher.”

“In front of his mother?” questioned Harry, quirking an eyebrow as he placed a large glass of pumpkin juice in front of Ron’s aforementioned son.

“Merlin, no!” laughed Ron in reply. “Do I look that stupid? And no you don’t have to answer that, it was rhetorical.”

“Such big words, and on a Saturday as well!”

“Ah shaddup,” replied Ron, “and hurry up with those bacon butties. I’m starving!”

“Well if you hadn’t insisted on spending few hours flying this morning, perhaps we could have eaten with the girls, before they left to go shopping.”

“Like I had to twist your arm, mate.”

Harry snorted and chose not to retort. Eating his own sandwich while he finished Ron’s, he swapped his son with his friend’s breakfast and took over Arthur’s feeding while Ron dug in.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything, Chris?”

“No thanks, Uncle Harry,” replied the young boy, his nose buried in the latest issue of Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle.

“Dad?”

“Yethson,” replied Ron through a mouthful of bacon.

“You know Wilma the Wonderful Witch?”

Harry watched his friend with interest. While Wilma was a recent addition to the comic, he had caught his friend surreptitiously reading Christopher’s comics on more than one occasion.

“Erm…Yes, son?” replied Ron doing his best to avoid Harry’s eyes and slightly smug smile.

“Well her middle name is Grenog, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And she’s named after Grenog Jones the famous Quidditch player, right?”

“Well she played Quidditch anyway,” replied Ron who still seemed to ignore anyone who didn’t play for the Cannon’s at least at some point in his or her career. “What are you getting at, son?”

“Well, my middle name is Severus, isn’t it? Was he someone famous?” asked Christopher eagerly.

~~~

Empty Glasses

“Oh, this is bloody useless!” groaned Ron Weasley slamming his empty glass down on the table. “The amount I’ve drank with Hermione and now you, I should be under the ruddy table by now!”

“Well we’re not really here to get drunk you know.”

“I know that!” responded Ron as he scratched at his white beard, “but, no effect at all? It’s not bloody right!”

“Oh, quit grumbling and get another round in, or I won’t tell you why I’m here.”

“Well that’s obvious isn’t it?” replied Ron as he pulled himself stiffly to his feet. “It’s got to be the final battle.”

“Ron, did you have grey hairs and a beard when you were eighteen?”

Ron, who had been walking towards the bar as his friend replied, stopped and turned round sharply, wincing as his dodgy knee complained about the inconsiderate treatment.

“What do you mean?”

“Well look at yourself!” replied Harry grinning at the confusion on his friend’s face, “We’re both look to be around what, eighty, eighty-five?”

Ron nodded, his expression though showed his confusion and Harry sighed quietly before continuing.

“You should know by now, how old you appear is linked to what your visitor has to tell you?”

“Well yeah,” Ron answered, his worn features screwed up in concentration, “I just thought…”

Harry looked at his friend in surprise, “You really thought the most important thing you did for me was that?”

“Well…”

“Look, Ron, you couldn’t be more wrong if you tried.”

“What then?”

“Get those drinks in, and I’ll tell you,” sighed Harry shaking his head at his friend’s apparently still present lack of self worth.

~~~

A Child’s Question

Harry and Ron just stared at each other as Christopher’s question sank in. Eventually Harry took a long swig of his orange juice and gave his oldest friend a look that was both supportive and yet said plainly - he’s your son; you tell him!

Ron forgot the need to chew first and tried to swallow his mouthful in one go - his eyes wide with pain as the large lump of food almost got stuck.

“Ron, mate, you okay?”

“Dad!”

After swallowing a generous amount of pumpkin juice, Ron turned to his son. “What’s brought this up, Chris?”

“Nothing really, Dad. I was just wondering.”

“Well, I’d rather your mother told you the story.”

Christopher’s excited expression dropped as he thought his father was trying to get out of telling him.

Seeing this Ron quickly added, “No son, I’ll tell you, but you may want to speak to your mum about it later, okay?”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Come on then, Snidget,” said Ron standing up and gently resting his hand on his son’s head before ruffling his hair. “Lets go sit in the living room, whilst your Uncle Harry gets off his lazy ar - err… bum and tidies away the breakfast things.”

Collecting his nephew from his friend’s arms, he held the kitchen door open with his foot and guided his eager son through into the main room, while Harry tried to splutter a retort before giving up and indicating he’d join them as soon as he was done.

“Take a seat, Chris,” said Ron tentatively. “Oh your mum is probably going to kill me for telling you this; doesn’t think you’re old enough, I reckon.”

“But, Dad!”

“No, Chris I said I’d tell you and I will.”

Ron sank into his chair and raked his free hand through his hair while he adjusted his other arm so Arthur could nestle comfortably.

“Right… so… erm… how much do you know about Voldemort?”

“Well, you and Mum helped Uncle Harry and Auntie Ginny get rid of him, didn’t you? At least that’s what Matthew says.”

“Who’s Matthew?”

“Matthew Jenkins. My friend.”

“Oh, right. That Matthew… Anyway… Where was I?”

“Voldemort.”

“Well yes, Matthew’s partially right. It wasn’t just us; there were a lot of people who helped us, right up to the end,” said Ron, before adding in a much quieter voice. “Well nearly the end, anyway.”

It was at this point that Harry, who had been standing quietly in the doorway, entered the room and went to sit next to Christopher, resting on the chair’s arm.

Nodding at Ron, Harry took up the story. “Well one of those people who helped us, one of our old professors, well his name was Severus Snape, and he did something that . . . well your mum and dad wanted to remember him, and that is why you have Severus as a middle name. To honour him.”

Christopher looked thoughtful for a moment, before asking, “Yes, Uncle Harry, but what did he do?”

Both Harry and Ron looked helplessly at each other for a moment, before Harry shrugged and rested his arm on his nephews shoulder. “He saved your mother’s life, Chris.”

“How?”

“Chris,” Ron tried to end the conversation, “I think that’s enough for now; we’ll talk to your mum, yeah?”

“Of course, I’ll be speaking with Mother!” replied Christopher indignantly glaring at his father, before turning to his Uncle Harry with a pleading look, “but I want you and Uncle Harry to tell me.”

“Okay, Chris, we’ll tell you a bit more, but when myself or your dad decide you know enough for now, you have to leave it at that, okay?”

“Yes, Uncle Harry.”

“Right, why don’t you go pass me your cousin and then go sit next to your dad. Let me have my chair back.”

“Okay,” said Christopher jumping up to allow his uncle to sit down, before, “But it’s Auntie Ginny’s chair, not yours!”

“You wouldn’t grass your favourite uncle up, would you?”

“Probably not,” replied Christopher before replying and sticking his tongue out, “But Uncle Fred isn’t sitting in it is he?”

“Why, you little…” Harry replied playfully making a grab as Christopher dodged his hands and landed with a slight umph! next to his dad, completely forgetting his cousin.

“You okay there, mate?” Harry asked as his friend adjusted himself so he could hold both the boys comfortably.

“Yeah, mate perfectly. It’s nice actually.”

Harry just grinned, “Yeah it is, isn’t it?”

“So how did this Snapey bloke help Mum?”

Covering his own snort with a cough, and pointedly avoiding his friend’s eyes, Ron started to explain.

“Snape was, erm,” Ron struggled has he tried to explain the complicated feelings that still surrounded the old Potions Professor. “Well, we thought that Professor Snape was helping Voldemort - ”

“But I thought - ”

“Let him finish, Chris.”

“Okay, Uncle Harry.”

“As I was saying we thought that the Professor,” continued Ron, “was helping Voldemort, and he was there that night with all the Death Eaters - ”

“I thought - “

“Chris!”

“Sorry, Dad,”

“‘S okay mate, just let me finish. Well he was there fighting against us, badly we thought at the time, as he seemed to have trouble hitting anyone, but it was that busy, nobody on our side or theirs really noticed, you know?”

Christopher just sat there rapt at his father’s words, when Harry took up the next part of the story.

“Like your dad was saying, we didn’t really notice what he was doing until a long time afterwards; the fight seemed to go on for hours; Voldemort was taunting us all the time. Then he started to concentrate his attacks on your mum, knowing that your dad would stop helping me to help her and I’d be distracted, hopefully enough to allow him to get me.”

Harry had to stop talking for a moment to regain a bit of composure; it had been many years since he had thought about that day and everything that happened. Before he continued, he looked at Ron and smiled slightly as his friend’s arms closed slightly around his son and nephew.

The only sound in the room was the soft lull of Harry’s voice as he continued with the story. “He cast the worst curse he could at her,” at this proclamation Chris gasped and his eyes widened, but continued to listen intently as his uncle carried on telling the story, “and as it headed for her, Professor Snape jumped in its path. It killed him instead of your mum. He saved her life, and it started the end of the fight, if it wasn’t for him…”

“Thank you, Uncle Harry, Dad.”

“That’s okay, son. You’re old enough to know some stuff about what happened now, but let me tell your mum you know, before you pester her with questions, yeah?”

“Of course,” replied Christopher. “Will you read some of my comic to me now?”

Harry burst out laughing, and soon after so did Ron.

“What did I do?” asked Chris obviously confused.

“Nothing son,” smiled Ron at his son, “you run along and grab your comic, while I let your uncle have Arthur back.”

Hermione and Ginny returned home later that day to find their husbands and sons laid out on the floor surrounded by stacks of Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle comics.

“Hello boys.”

“Hi, Mum.”

“Have you been having fun?”

“Yeah not bad, bit boring really.”

~~~

In Memoriam

The noise was phenomenal as the two teams walked on to the field with slow, sombre, but purposeful strides; the importance of the occasion obviously wasn’t lost on any of the fourteen players.

The Cleansweep Stadium - even with its capacity especially enlarged for the day - was full to busting and a riot of colour, not just the lurid orange of the home team, but of just about every colour you could think of. The purple and gold of Portree, mixed with the black and white of the Montrose Magpies, who in turn mixed in with the green and yellow of the Kenmare Kestrels. Those who weren’t transfixed by the procession on to the pitch would also have spotted many a foreign and international team represented in the crowd.

The huge screen at one end of the stadium was devoid of its usual adverts for magical products, indeed the single image on the screen didn’t even move. Just looking at the smiling face of Ronald Bilius Weasley, (Order of Merlin, First Class, Chief Warlock, Honorary President of the Chudley Cannons, and Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry) surrounded by a simple black border and the legend 1980 - 2102 brought a lump to everyone’s throats.

The players took their places, heads bowed in the centre of the field in a semi-circle, facing the raised podium on the edge of the playing area at which sat the Minister of Magic, and over a dozen of her international counterparts.

A shrill whistle broke through the cacophony of noise and almost instantly the stadium fell silent. For a full three minutes the only noises that could be heard were a soft rustle of the wind and a muted sobbing from a number of the 80,000 strong crowd. At the referee’s second whistle, the home of The Chudley Cannons erupted.

Madam Thomas stood silently and composed herself as she waited for the noise to die down enough that she could be heard. Even with an exceptionally strong Sonorus, she would struggle to make herself heard at the moment, not that she would; the people needed this, it was a fitting tribute to the man, and far more relevant - and the one that Madame Thomas thought her friend Ron would have been touched by the most - than the one official homage she was about to give.

“Friends,” she began.

“Friends, we are gathered here today to celebrate the life of a great man, but more than that a great friend. Ronald Bilius Weasley, or as he insisted on being called, Ron, was born in to The Ancient and Noble house of Weasley on the 1st March 1980, the sixth child of Molly and Arthur.

Briefly, she spoke of Ron’s life with his family, before coming to the part that many in the crowd had memorised by heart.

“Of course at the age of eleven, Ron entered the institution he was eventually to head. I speak, of course, of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but not before an event took place that was to shape all out our futures, it was on the Hogwarts Express that Ron met both his future wife, Hermione Jane Granger, and his life-long friend, Harry James Potter.

“The importance of those two meetings was of course unknown to them and everyone else at the time. Even as the friendships deepened and the years progressed, the true significance did not become apparent until over six years later. However, there is much more to talk about before we reach that fateful night.

The Minister paused to take a sip from a glass of water. As she did so she glanced across the field, still standing in the centre were the Quidditch players. With a wave of her wand a line of fifteen chairs appeared.

“Ladies… Gentlemen… Please take a seat, while an old woman rambles.”

Both team captains and the referee all shook their heads slightly, and the rest of the players could be observed to stand just a little straighter.

“Of course, I quite understand.” It was only then that she noticed the entire stadium was still standing and not just the players. Swallowing back the lump in her throat and with another quick wave of her hand to remove the unwanted chairs, she continued on with her eulogy.

“…And so after his incarceration, along with the Auror Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody, he returned home, only to find his father, Arthur, was missing in action.

“The war continued to rage on, and Ron continued his journey towards the man he became, all the while strengthening the bond between himself and his friends, which now not only included Hermione and Harry, but his younger sister, Ginevra.

“There were other important people and friends at that time, Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood immediately spring to mind, but no alliance was more important that night than the one that bound those four young witches and wizards.

“So now we come to the night, the night the self-styled Lord Voldemort was defeated. I don’t think there is one person in this stadium who doesn’t know almost every detail of that battle, the sacrifices of Severus Snape and the aforementioned Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood.

“It’s well known that the battle raged for many hours, with huge losses on both sides. With every fallen Death Eater, Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle seemed to grow weaker and more isolated.

“With every person fighting Voldemort who fell, those remaining grew more determined, more resolute. Sensing his growing disadvantage, he cast a spell creating a shimmering, transparent dome, trapping himself, Harry, Hermione, Ginny, and of course Ron within.

“Those outside were powerless to help, and the battle outside the dome soon tapered out. What was left of the Death Eaters, bereft of the immediate support of their leader, took the opportunity to escape, leaving those left to watch on awestruck as battle inside intensified.

“As Voldemort concentrated his attacks on Ron and Mr. Potter’s friends, he failed to notice the surge of power growing in the young wizard. Voldemort’s ego apparently was unable to comprehend the effects that real love and friendship create. It was the love and friendship between the four that had brought them this far. It was Ron’s love and friendship for his friends that allowed him to maintain a shield far longer than should have been possible to protect them all, allowing them to carry the attack to The Dark Lord, drawing Voldemort’s own attacks away from Mr Potter. And of course, it was Mr Potter’s love and friendship, once he realised Ron and his friends were on the point of magical exhaustion and that their defences were about to fail, that allowed him to defeat Tom Riddle once and for all.”

Madam Thomas continued to describe Ron’s life for another twenty minutes, covering his marriage to Hermione Granger, their subsequent child Christopher, and his career up to his shocking death one week earlier.

Christopher himself declined to make a full speech, stating that he would prefer to mourn in private; however he did thank everyone for coming along and spoke briefly about how touched the family were by the support everyone was showing. He also took great pride in starting both this, the official match, and the one at his father’s school the following day.

Thus began one of the hardest fought and most intense games of Quidditch to ever grace the famous Cleansweap Stadium, played entirely within the spirit of the game, if not completely within the letter of the rules. But everyone fortunate enough to witness it first-hand agreed that it was the perfect tribute to the man and the way he led his life.

~~~

In Which Ron Learns Some More

It was a guarded Ron who made his way back over to the table with his and Harry’s drinks. He wasn’t sure why but he was more nervous now - wondering what his oldest friend had to tell him - than he had been with any of his four previous visitors (and considering who they had been that was saying something!) With the previous visitor, his beloved wife Hermione, it had been the thought of meeting her again that had been at the forefront of his worries, not what she had to say.

Meeting Harry again had been easy, but it was Harry’s opinion that meant the most to him. He wasn’t being disloyal to his wife because he knew she felt exactly the same and had, on many an occasion during the dark days after the death of Harry and his sister Ginny, talked about it late in to the night.

So, as Ron took his position opposite Harry and handed him his pint, he was too preoccupied to notice his surroundings changing.

The walls of the pub fell away and the bright blue of the sky replaced the dingy smoke-stained ceiling, the street outside was momentarily visible before it was traded for a much more familiar vista. That of where this journey first started. The grounds of his childhood home, The Burrow.

Harry smiled at him from across the old picnic table that had graced The Burrow’s gardens for as long as Ron could remember.

“You ready to do this mate?”

“As I’ll ever be,” responded Ron cautiously.

“Then perhaps we should start at the beginning, Weasley,” Harry grinned, “You do remember this place I take it?”

“Harry. Senility must have really set in whilst you’ve been waiting. Of course I recognise it. How could I not? It’s The Burrow.”

“No it’s not,” said Harry quietly, “it’s home.”

~*~

The morning of the day they set off to Platform 9¾ was much the same as it had been for as long as Ron could remember. Dad had wished them all well over breakfast before going in to work, while Mum was fretting that they’d be late if they didn’t set off soon.

Of course the twins weren’t helping, messing about and pretending to forget things. Percy of course had been ready before breakfast. He had even been served and was probably sitting down there with a look of disgust on his face.

It was all so familiar to Ron, all apart from one thing; this year he’d be getting on the Hogwarts Express with them.

“Ronald Weasley!” his mum’s voice carried up the stairs to his bedroom, “You get down here right this instant. I will not have you making us late for the Express your first time.”
Ron wasn’t all that worried about being late for the Express because he had decided that morning he wasn’t going: he couldn’t hope to match his brothers achievements, even the twins, and nobody was going to want to be friends with someone as poor as he was, so why put himself through seven years of hell? No he was going to stay here; he’d think of something to tell his mother.

“Ron! Why aren’t you moving?”

Ron nearly jumped out of his skin as his mother stuck her head though the door.

“I’m not going, mum.”

“What do you mean, you’re not going? Of course you’re going!”

He just ducked his head and mumbled an answer to his mother, who was about to yell her reply when understanding washed over her. Her little Ron was scared - how had she not seen it? The answer to that was obvious: she had been too set about leaving on time. She mentally kicked herself, it wasn’t as this was the first time one of her children had felt like this.

“Ron, dear…” she started carefully as she sat on the edge of her son’s bed next to him.

“Yeah,”

“Why don’t you tell your old mum what’s wrong?”

“Who said anything was wrong? I’m just not going, that’s all.”

“Oh okay, if that’s all,” and she started to get up.

“That’s it? You’re not going to ask why?” asked Ron in a shocked voice.

“No, love, you’ve said you don’t want to go. That’s good enough for me . . . Unless there is something you want to tell me, that is?”

Ron just looked at his feet, unable to look at or answer his mother.

“Is there something you want to talk about, love?” Molly smiled slightly as she saw her youngest son’s head start to raise. She’d had similar conversations with nearly all her sons over the years.- Wel,l apart from the twins; they’d been almost too eager to go, which probably explained all the letters from Professor McGonagall over the two years they’d been at the school - so she could read the signs quite well. Her Ron would tell her what was on his mind any moment now.

“Mum…”

“Yes?”

“I’m scare… Err… I’m not sure Hogwarts is best for me.”

“Of course it is Ron; why would you think that?”

“My brothers, they never…”

“They never what, panicked before going?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh Ron,” replied Molly putting an arm around her son, “the only ones I’ve not had this conversation with are the twins, and they’re well…”

“Yeah, they are, aren’t they?” replied Ron with a slight grin, “but even they do okay.”

“Ron, I don’t want you to be anyone else but yourself. You’re going to be as good as anyone there, people will like you for who you are, and if they don’t that’s their problem. All I ask is that you work hard and do your best.”

“I know that Mum.”

“I know you do, love,” Molly smiled warmly at her son, pulling her arm tighter around him, “now are you going to get that trunk downstairs?”

“Yeah, Mum I suppose so, but what if…”

“If what, son?” asked Molly even though she had a fairly good idea what was bothering her son.

“What if nobody wants to know me, wants to be my friend?”

“I tell you what, son,” replied Molly releasing her son so she moved round and crouched in front of him, “if you haven’t made a friend by the end of the first week, you can home. How’s that?”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“That’s great Mum, thanks.”

“That’s okay, son, now don’t be too long in coming downstairs. I meant every word about not letting you make us late.”

“I’ll be right down,” replied Ron smiling properly for the first time that morning.

His mum paused at the door and without turning round, said “and Ron, I expect a letter telling me how great your new friends are, okay?”

“Yes, Mum.”

~*~

The scene shifted from Ron’s vividly orange bedroom back outside to a garden bench on which sat two old friends.

“Harry?” questioned the slightly older of the two, “What are you showing me this for?”

“You always were slightly slow about these things,” smiled the other man warmly. “First, as I’m sure you have already been told, it’s you who chooses what you see. I’m just here to talk. And second, if you want to know why, perhaps you should think about the conversation with your mother.”

“Whatever, Harry, I’d rather not think about myself back then.”

Harry shook his head sadly at his friend. “Well perhaps seeing some more will help.”

~*~

Suddenly, Ron found himself standing in the doorway to a very familiar carriage in which sat a young nervous-looking, black haired boy. It was the boy from the platform, the one Fred and George said was…

“Anyone sitting there?” he asked pointing at the seat opposite the boy. “Everywhere else is full.”

The boy shook his head, so Ron sat down and looked at the small figure sitting opposite him, and then quickly looked out of the window, pretending he hadn’t been staring. He was so small, thought Ron, who really couldn’t put into words what he was expecting The boy who lived to look like, other than, well, bigger…

“Hey, Ron,” one of his brothers stuck his head through the door. “Listen, we’re going down the middle of the train - Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.”

“Right,” mumbled Ron.

“Harry,” said his other brother, “did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley and this is Ron, our brother. See you later then.”

“Bye,” said Ron at the same time as his companion.

“Are you really Harry Potter?” Ron blurted out, before kicking himself.

The boy nodded, shyly.

“Oh well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George’s jokes,” said Ron. “And have you really got, you know…” he added pointing at Harry’s forehead.

Harry surprised Ron by pulling back his fringe to show the lightning scar. Ron felt himself staring as he asked, “So that’s where You-Know-Who…?”

“Yes,” replied Harry, “but I can’t remember it.”

“Nothing?” said Ron eagerly.

“Well””I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else.”

“Wow,” said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few moments, then, as he suddenly realised what he was doing, he looked quickly out of the window again and hoped Harry hadn’t noticed.

“Are all your family wizards?” asked Harry.

“Er””Yes, I think so,” said Ron. “I think Mum’s got a second cousin who’s an accountant, but we never talk about him.”

“So you must know loads of Magic already.”

Ron just knew that The -Boy -Who Lived must know loads more Magic than he himself did - even if he had been brought up by Muggles - so he tried to change the subject.

“I heard you went to live with Muggles,” he asked. “What are they like?”

The rest of the journey passed much in the same way - when they weren’t interrupted by annoying girls and gits like Draco Malfoy that was - and by the time they reached Hogwarts, Ron knew he’d have to owl his mum and tell her all about his new friend, called Harry.

~*~

“Just a little more patience, Ron,” Harry implored before his friend could query the memories once more.

“Just because it’s you mate,” replied Ron. “But you should know everyone else had at least begun to make their point by now!” he added cheekily.

“Oh, but I am friend, I am.”

~*~

For the next hour, Harry and Ron worked their way through dozens of memories. The end of the war and its aftermath, their proposals to Ginny and Hermione respectively, their marriages and best man speeches, their children being born, times of peace and contentment and times of hardship. There were many constants throughout but two were plainly obvious, the presence of the two men sitting opposite each other now. Harry and Ron, Ron and Harry, friends since that day so many years ago on the Hogwarts Express.

~*~

“Well there’s just one more memory, mate, are you ready?” asked Harry quietly.

“This one is the one we’ve been working towards then?” replied Ron warily.

“This is the one,” replied Harry.

“It’s not going to be a happy one is it? I can tell.”

“Depends on your point of view I suppose,” replied Harry, “But yeah, you’re right. We’ve seen more joyful ones.”

“Right, let’s get it over with then,” replied Ron resolutely.

~*~

The scene shifted again and this time, the stark white walls were the first thing Ron noticed, the second was the two beds he was sitting between while his wife was sitting on the far side of the room, a book resting open but ignored on her knee.

Avoiding the weary gaze he knew would be there, every little detail of the events in this room were etched permanently in his brain. He had spent nearly every evening for months afterwards in his Pensieve memory, watching and re-watching, each time wishing for a different outcome despite knowing the hopelessness of such wishes.

Eventually, Hermione made him retrieve the memories and place them back inside his head - knowing they were becoming an obsession - and move on.

No, Ron knew exactly what to expect. What he wasn’t sure about was what Harry was trying to tell him with these memories. As far as he could see nothing especially significant had happened in any of them, well nothing that added up to a cohesive message anyway.

There was a slight moan from the bed to his left and he turned slowly turned towards his old friend.

“Harry?”

“Ron…” croaked Harry faintly, “You’re still here…”

“Of course we are mate; where else would I be?”

Harry smiled weakly, “Where else indeed?”

There was a short but heavy pause before Harry tried to speak again, “Ginny, is she…?”

When Harry and Ginny had first been brought in to the hospice, while they still had the strength to do so, they had made it very clear to their son and both Ron and Hermione that they were not to keep anything from them. They knew why they were in there and were ready for it, so holding back his own tears, Ron replied, “She’s still here mate, just…”

“How…?”

“The healers said she should sleep now, until…” Ron’s voice broke and he swallowed hard.

“That’s good, then,” croaked Harry.

“Yeah…”

Hermione watched quietly from her chair, her hand resting gently on Ginny’s arm.

“You all right, Hermione?” asked Ron without turning round.

“I’m fine, Ron, look after Harry,” Hermione replied softly.

“Hermione?” asked Harry, “You’ll let me know when, won’t you?”

“Of course I will, Harry,” she replied as warmly as she could.

“Thank you.”

“Ron, I know Arthur is old enough to look after himself, but you will be there if he needs you, won’t you?”

“Of course I will, Harry, you know I will.”

“Yeah, I know…” Harry replied with difficulty. Speaking was obviously causing him a great deal of pain so he motioned to the jug of water on the bedside table. Ron poured him a small amount in a glass and helped him to drink it, trickling it gently down his throat.

“Harry, you should rest…”

“No, not yet,” replied Harry, “not yet.”

A silence once again fell over the room, which was only broken when Hermione stood up and slowly walked around to the other side of Harry’s bed, crouching down and taking his hand in hers.

“Has she?” croaked Harry.

“Yes, she passed away a few moments ago,” she mumbled, tears streaming down her face.

“Was she in any-”

“No, Harry, it was peaceful; she was in no pain.”

Harry didn’t reply, he just closed his eyes and gripped both of his oldest friend’s hands as tightly as his weakened state would allow him.

“Ron, can you let Arthur know?”

“Of course I can Harry, do you want me to go and wake him?” Ron looked questioningly at his friend, forcing his own grief at his sister’s death to one side.

“No, let him sleep.”

“I really think you should…”

“There isn’t time Hermione,” replied Harry warmly, at the same time giving her hand a squeeze.

“You were waiting, weren’t you?” asked Ron softly.

“You always were perceptive, when you decided to be,” answered Harry with a frail grin.

“Prat!” responded Ron.

“Pillock!” whispered Harry the corners of his mouth twitching, before he closed his eyes for the last time, his grip on his friends’ hands going slack.

Ron was never sure how, even after repeated viewings of his Pensieve, but the next thing he knew he was on his knees between the beds his arms wrapped around Hermione and tears streaming down his face.

~*~

“You still don’t get it, do you?” said Harry kindly.

“Not really,” replied Ron. “If you had shown me the final battle, I could work it out. Probably. But really in those scenes I didn’t do anything.”

Harry looked almost sadly at his oldest friend, “Ron. How can you have taught generations of students the importance of such things, and yet not see it in yourself?”

“Huh?”

“Friendship, Ron. The pure unadulterated joy of friendship.”

“But I - ”

“Ron, as far as I’m concerned, my life only really started that first journey on the Hogwarts Express, and who was there from the start? You, that’s who.”

Picking up the theme Harry continued, “And all the years inbetween, who?”

“Well - “

“And I really don’t care count the times we fell out - before you start. Everyone falls out occasionally, we did probably less than most actually.”

“Maybe,” replied Ron with a wry smile.

“And who was there at the end?”

“Well me and Hermione of course, where else would we have been?” answered Ron a jokey indignant tone to his voice.

“Exactly!” replied Harry, grinning and smacking the table with his hand to emphasise his point. Maybe just maybe Ron was beginning to get it. “Ron. Mate. You were there from the start of what I count as my life, right until the end, and then you looked after my son like he was your own despite him being old enough to do that himself.”

“Well…” replied Ron, “It’s what friends are for isn’t it?”

“Once again,” said Harry with a huge grin, “exactly!”

“Surely I did bigger things though, being your friend just was. I can’t imagine being anything else, being your friend didn’t take anything. Oh damn and bugger, you know what I mean!”

“I do, Ron, I do. Helping with Voldemort and all that entailed is important to me - please believe that - and I don’t mean to belittle it, but it pales into insignificance when compared to what your friendship means to me and your support during all the little things in life.”

“Really?” replied Ron slightly surprised.

“Yes, Ron, really,” answered Harry, leaning over and clasping his friend’s shoulders. “Do you understand now, or do I have to get Hermione to explain it to you?”

“No, mate I get it,” grinned Ron in reply, “I usually do. Eventually.”

“Eventually,” replied Harry lightly cuffing Ron’s cheeks as he pulled away and sat back in his chair.

“Prat!”

“Pillock!”

~*~

The Last Lesson

It was Ron’s turn to wait, he’d learnt more about his life had meant from his visitors than he would have thought possible, now he could return the favour to the one person who had moulded his life, started him on the journey to the man he became, the one person he’d never had the chance to really tell.

The person Ron could see cresting a distant hill, as he sat high in the branches of the old oak tree that sat on the edge of The Burrow’s garden.

As the thin man drew closer, he appeared to be in his mid forties or early fifties, his long, green, slightly shabby robes billowed gently in the breeze as he strode purposefully through the meadow, his red hair - what he had left of it - showed signs of grey. His eyes, whilst hidden behind glasses, sparkled with pride.

Ron looked down from his perch high in the trees branches, “Hi,”

“Hello, son,” replied the man, his arm reaching up and grabbing hold of the lowest branch, “it’s good to see you.”

He waited while his father completed his climb, before speaking again, “It’s good to see you again as well, Dad.”

~*~
Fin

A/N: Well this is the end, and I’d just like to thank everyone for reading and your fantastic reviews.

Major thanks to everyone who has helped with beta work on this story, particularly: Allie, Baffy, Katieay, Kelleypen, Kindree, Robert & Yoda, it wouldn’t have been anywhere near as good without them.