Ronald Weasley was not as responsible as Percy, not as outgoing as Fred or George, and infinitely less of a hero than his soon-to-be-best friend Harry Potter.

He was also most certainly not going by Ronald, no matter what his mother (and consequently most of his possessions) said. Merlin, it was nearly as bad as Ginevra…not that he was stupid enough to mention that in the presence of his family. Gred and Forge, he thought with a shudder, were capable of much worse nicknames.

So no one really noticed when 'Ronald' became 'Ron'. Not even Molly Weasley thought to frown and purse her lips at the newly changed name on his schoolbooks, his trunk, his potions kit. Simply because she didn't notice.

That was for the best, anyway. Alone in the room at the top of the house, it took a night of spellwork with Charlie's old wand (why did Charlie get a second wand, when his parents couldn't afford one suited to their youngest son?) and his brand new—well, relatively new—schoolbooks. He had to admit it was a decent wand. It did the job, anyway. He'd always liked Charlie, even if dragons weren't his thing.

He'd never done magic before, unless you counted the uncontrolled bursts that punctuate the life of every wizard child. His spellwork wasn't as neat as Molly's had been when it wiped away the old traces of his brother's names to make way for Ronald, but by the time the straggle-feathered rooster hopped cautiously to the roof of the old broom shed (miraculously not losing any more feathers in the process) to welcome the rising sun, the faded brown leather said 'Ron'. Just Ron.

After a moment's contemplation, he added 'Weasley', in wobbly letters, and slightly further away from 'Ron' than it should have been.

Admiring the results of the biggest symbolic step he had ever taken toward…well, anything…in his life, Ron almost crowed too.

But jubilation was loud, and loud was the best way to attract unwelcome attention in the Weasley household, because waking the entire family at ungodly hours of the morning was the particular domain of Fred and George, who resented competition. So Ron celebrated in a quieter way by collapsing into bed and letting Mum call him four times to come down to breakfast.

That afternoon he played Quidditch in the orchard with Fred and George and for the first time the rushing late summer breeze sounded in his ears as it's Weasley, Weasley with the quaffle, and Ron Weasley scores another goal for Gryffindor...

Molly's youngest son was not as confident as Bill, as athletic as Charlie, or as studious as Percy. And heaven knew he wasn't as badly behaved as Fred and George, thought Molly with a sort of comfortable shudder.

But he was quieter than his years and disposition should have made him, she worried. Hogwarts would be good for her son. He needed friends his own age, friends who weren't liable to spend every day thinking up practical jokes…those two…

And her thoughts drifted off as she waved her wand, the newly laundered school robes folding themselves into a neat pile.

Ron was not as smart as Hermione Granger and not as good on a broomstick as his now-best-friend Harry Bloody Potter, who had a gift for getting into more trouble (or at least worse trouble) than Fred and George combined. So what he was doing in this hidden labyrinth of death traps was beyond him. Even Hermione relished the challenge, despite her obsession with rules. And Harry, of course, had shifted into hero-mode, following wherever his magical scar led him and plucking winged keys almost effortlessly from the air. Hungry as he was for adventure, Ron wasn't sure what he was doing here, aside from the fact that they were his best friends and he was sticking with them even if they didn't need him.

Until he saw the chess set.

It was twice his size, not that it mattered. This was strategy. This was wizard's chess.

He didn't know if it was nerves or burning, seething excitement. All he knew was that the voice in his ears didn't sound like his own.

"I'll be a knight."

Sometimes Ginny was at a loss to understand her stupid brother's insecurities.

Not Bill or Charlie or Percy or the twins. They didn't have insecurities—well, except for Percy—or if they did, they didn't share them with their little sister. The childhood tagalong.

Ron didn't share his with her either, but they were scrawled across his features, as easy to pick out as the individual freckles on his long nose.

And while Ginny didn't understand him, because he was a boy and therefore stupid, she understood insecurities perfectly. First they were sneaking thoughts of you're not big enough, you'll never keep up, and then they were the whispers that you're not pretty enough, who cares for red hair with plain brown eyes, and then it was the ones when you got older and realized that you were pretty, beautiful even, that were worst of all.

Because then the lie was more unsettling and harder to pin down, even when it smiled up from the cover of Mum's Witches Weekly and down from the Muggle advertisements at King's Cross, and (as far as she could tell) everywhere in either world. And that's when it said you're pretty and you've won, congratulations, your worth is all right there in the mirror and no one expects anything else…

And it was the rage of seeing that lie manifest as blind assumption in Zacharias Smith's leer that made her hex him halfway across the compartment, which in turn was why she'd spent a miserable couple of hours picking at cold partridge and delicate little pastries in another compartment with a load of older students and a professor she didn't even know, trying not to catch Harry's eye.

So okay, maybe she could understand Ron's insecurity a little bit, but did he really think that bright red ears and savage stabs at his steak-and-kidney pie were going to clue in a bewildered Hermione (who picked up so quickly on everything but this, really), when there wasn't anything between her and Harry anyway?

Not, Ginny acknowledged as she let the flavors of lemon and meringue swirl on her tongue, that she was any better.

Where was Harry, anyway? He'd been right there in Slughorn's compartment after all, and now the feast was nearly over…

Her heart leapt strangely when he approached, and was promptly informed by her brain that this was the shock of seeing her brother's best friend covered in blood, and not because she was falling for Harry Bloody Potter again.

Neither of them really believed it.

King Harry and Queen Hermione, the thing whispered in his ear, night after sleepless night, week after week. Mr. and Mrs. Potter.

There was no room for him and there never had been. He had been too stupid to see it until now. They didn't need him, that much was amply clear to Ron even if it wasn't obvious to the royal couple. There was no giant chessboard here. No need for a knight, a shamefully weak knight with no armor.

Even the shining invisibility cloak was borrowed from Harry.

Actually there was a chessboard, but it was one only he could see, and only after he'd stepped on all the wrong squares.

So one night he left. He didn't know how, or why it had happened…just that he was all of a sudden gone, standing in a lonely field somewhere on his own, hoping with every angry beat of the heart still pushing pounding blood to his ears that they'd be happier without him.

And when the realization came—how long did it take? Four seconds? Five?—that they wouldn't be, he didn't know how to get back either. He didn't, for that matter, know where he was.

Knights can't step carefully. They move at right angles, farther away when they want to come closer.

And then he saw a light in the distance, and knew that the pounding was not all blood in his ears, but the crash of surf on the seashore. It was Bill and Fleur's cottage, he knew without ever having seen it before, recognized it from Bill's hurried mutter in his ear the morning of the wedding.

So the dishonored knight found shelter while the king and queen continued the fight in the woods, this time within themselves and in bitter silence.

Ron was not a hero but he had dragged his best friend out of a freezing pond and now Harry shivered beside him while he poised a ruby-hilted sword over a golden locket that glinted dimly in the moonlight.

Even the reflection of light was wrong. Distorted. Sideways.

It was whispering again, saying things that twisted his soul against itself and should not have been said aloud even in the silent stillness of a moonlit forest. It was dropping words that froze and shattered the cold air, not the other way round, and Ron knew only by his violent shivering that he was not turning to ice himself.

The moon drew shifting patterns on the forest floor and the voice continued, biting into his brain until he recognized it as his own.

Harry never mentioned the flash of scarlet in his friend's eyes, just quietly pulled him into a handshake that turned into a protracted hug. And the red-haired knight leaned into his best friend's embrace and let the Sword of Gryffindor dangle from his right hand and trace the frosted leaves of the forest floor and still didn't know how to be a hero.