AN: YOU KNOW HOW IT GOES. I DON'T OWN HARRY POTTER.

THIS SHORT STORY IS NOT CONNECTED TO MY SERIES: THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL SAGA. THIS WILL MOST PROBABLY BE A THREE-SHOT OR SO.

WARNING: VIOLENCE, OCCASIONAL CURSING, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH.

PLEASE REVIEW/P.M. ME

ENJOY!

Chapter 1: Four Seconds.

"Ron had dropped his glass; he half-rose from his chair and then crumpled, his extremities jerking uncontrollably. Foam was dribbling from his mouth and his eyes were bulging from their sockets.

'Professor!' Harry bellowed. 'Do something'

But Slughorn seemed paralysed by shock. Ron twitched and choked: his skin was turning blue.

'What - but -' spluttered Slughorn.

Harry leapt over a low table and sprinted towards Slughorn's open potion kit, pulling out jars and pouches, while the terrible sound of Ron's gargling breath filled the room."—J.K. Rowling -Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

He searched frantically, his hands flying through the Potions-Kit, knocking its contents around in their rummaging.

A vial flew out and smashed on the stone floor, its acidic stench filling the room.

Harry didn't smell it. His senses seemed to be entirely focused on the terrible rasp of Ron's attempts at breathing.

He didn't think of summoning the Bezoar. Later, he would hate himself for that. Later, he would think about how Accio may have saved his life against a dragon, how it definitely saved his life in the graveyard, and how stupid was he that he couldn't use it to save his friend's life?

Later, he would think about that. Right then, as he scrabbled through Slughorn's bag, his mind was entirely consumed by the pinpoint desire to find the stone.

And then triumph roared inside him as his hand closed on the Bezoar, and best of all, he could still hear Ron fighting for breath behind him.

He knew that while Ron was still trying to breathe there was still time.

He twisted around, barely noticing the relief flashing across Slughorn's face. He ignored the thought 'useless bastard!' that flitted through his mind at the sight.

His eyes were set only on Ron's face. He ran toward the prone boy, gripping the Bezoar tightly, watching with horror how Ron's breathing was slowing, how his chest was heaving less strongly, how his freckles had been blocked out by the thick black veins creeping their way over his face.

He ran, and he wasn't looking down, and so he didn't see the loose stone in the floor, didn't notice how it poked out of the ground at an angle.

And, sprinting, when his shoe collided with it, he flew forward.

And as he landed with a grunt, his funny bone smashed into the hard floor, making his entire arm spasm, making his hand twist out and toss the Bezoar across the room.

He locked his gaze on it, panic clouding his mind. Ron's breathing was getting harsher, the rasped attempts sounding somehow shallower.

He dived forward, the need to reach the Bezoar, the need to get it to Ron before it was too late pushing him into unthinking action.

He dived forward, and he didn't hear Slughorn calling out "Accio Bezoar!"

He was halfway to it when the stone started flying through the air.

His hand reached out for it, his Seeker's instincts honed, his fingers driven by pure need.

Maybe it was the way his fingers were still slightly numb from the bump to his elbow. Maybe it was the specific angle that the Bezoar was flying at relative to his body.

Whatever it was, his fingers closed, not catching it, instead somehow knocking it to the ground.

It only took him another four seconds to grab it off the floor and scramble to his feet.

But those four seconds were four seconds too many.

Part of his mind realized it instantly when he looked at his friend again. His mind went blank as it took in Ron's sightless eyes, as he understood what his unmoving chest meant.

But he still continued. Functioning on autopilot, he shoved the Bezoar into Ron's mouth, hoping against hope, hoping for a miracle.

But Fawkes did not appear suddenly to cry his healing tears. Dumbledore did not appear to animate a statue, no.

The Bezoar fell out of Ron's mouth with a soft plop.

And as Slughorn gently put a hand on his shoulder, saying something that he couldn't hear through the rushing in his ears, Harry dropped to his knees next to the still body of Ron Weasley.

The next few hours passed him in a daze. It's a feeling that he would become quite familiar with, over the next few days.

A feeling like he's only attached to his body by a thin string, a feeling like he was dreaming. A feeling like he was somehow outside of his body like he was watching himself, as if through a series of photographs.

People talked to him, but the words didn't really register in his mind.

He talked to Dumbledore, who Floo'd to the Weasleys to tell them the news.

He just sat in the Headmaster's office while he was gone, staring blankly at the wall.

Vaguely, he wondered why it had been so different with Sirius. With Sirius, he had realized, hell, accepted the death minutes after it had happened. With Sirius, he had felt pain, felt anger.

With Sirius, he had smashed half of Dumbledore's precious instruments as he raged.

This time, he stared at the wall of portraits in Dumbledore's office and felt nothing.

Eventually, Dumbledore came back, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley in tow.

Before he had even had a chance to comprehend their appearance, Molly had seized him in a tight hug, her body heaving with her great sobs.

He tried to apologize, tried to tell her how he should have done better, how he shouldn't have tripped, how he should have saved her son.

She refused to hear it. She pulled him close, nearly smothering him, and through her tears talked about how he and Hermione would be staying at them from the next day, until at least a few days after the funeral. How she still saw them as all but family, how Ron would want them there.

He didn't cry. He couldn't. He just nodded, as the entire chain of events began to play inside his head again.

Arthur hugged him too, but he didn't talk. He looked confused, lost. A far sight from the happy man Harry had always known him to be.

At some point, McGonagall arrived with Ginny, and pulled Harry out of Dumbledore's office, leaving the headmaster with Ron's parents and sister.

And then, she hugged him.

It was surprising enough, coming from his strict head of house, that it actually broke through his stupor.

"Mr. Potter. Harry. I-I know how close you two were," and her voice choked up with emotion, her brogue coming out in the heat of her pain. "I want you to know that I'm available to talk. Please. When you're ready"

His mind went blank again, something short-circuiting at the thought of talking about what had happened in Slughorn's office.

In his mind's eye, he could still see the strange colors Ron's face had gone.

"Thank you, Professor"

She looked at him for a long moment, before sighing and shaking her head.

He stared at the Marauder's Map, looking for the dot labeled Hermione Granger.

His eyes skated over the pacing dot of Draco Malfoy in Snape's office.

Later, he would have the chance to think about that. But right then, his mind was blank, and he didn't even wonder who the perpetrator was.

Of course, he found her dot in the library, sitting near Neville.

He croaked out "mischief managed" and tapped the Map, leaving it blank.

And with a lingering look at Ron's bed, he left his room.

It was beyond strange to him, how normal everything seemed. How, as he walked through the corridors toward the library, nothing seemed to have changed.

Students were still running around, portraits were still talking to one another, ghosts were still floating through the walls.

It wasn't right. Everything should have just stopped, with Ron dead. With Ron having scratched his throat almost bloody, as he tried to breathe. With Ron's face having gone all purple and black.

They shouldn't have just kept on like usual.

He found himself turning a corner in the library, arriving in front of Hermione's desk.

She was looking behind her, to the table where Neville sat. From the sounds of it, she had been answering some question he had on their Charms homework.

Harry just stood there in the lamplight, unable and unwilling to break Hermione's last seconds of normality.

But then she turned back to her book, having finished answering Neville, and she gave a little squawk of surprise at his presence.

"Harry! Don't do-Harry?"

And then she stood up, face suddenly paling and looking alarmed. She must have caught something from his appearance, because her hand rose to her mouth, and she looked downright terrified.

"Ha-Harry? What-"

He forced himself to speak, forced the words past the sudden blockage in his vocal chords.

"Hermione. It's-its Ron. He's-"

He couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't bring himself to do it. She was shaking then, whispering "no".

Neville stood up in a rush, his chair falling to the ground behind him with a clatter.

"Harry? What's going on?"

He didn't take his eyes off of Hermione. Made the words come out, even though they didn't really mean anything. Even though saying them brought up a pain that stabbed through his numb haze.

"Ron. He's-he's dead"

He shoves his hands into the potion-kit, searching for the Bezoar.

Immediately, his hand closes around it, the rough stone rubbing at his fingers.

He turns around triumphantly and is instantly at Ron's side.

He shoves the stone in Ron's mouth, and right away, Ron's breathing goes back to normal, his face returning to its normal color in a blink of an eye.

Ron jumps up and hugs him, spewing his gratitude.

But for some reason, there are tears streaming down Harry's face, blurring his vision.

And then Ron's still hugging him, but his face is all black, his chest is still.

Harry woke up with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in his four-poster bed.

His gaze automatically flew to Ron's bed, to the moonlight streaming over the Quidditch posters on the wall.

He dropped back into bed with a groan, eventually falling asleep with tears running down his face and a gaping hole inside of him.

And then they were arriving at the Burrow. Hermione caught him when he staggered, holding him up, preventing him from falling.

The silence in the burrow was unnatural. It was as shocking to the system as a cold shower. There were no loud, joyous conversations taking place. No small explosions from Fred and George's room.

They'd barely been there for long enough to dust the soot off of their robes when Fred and George walked in, both of then lacking their customary grins.

"Hey," George whispered, while Fred cast silencing charms on the door and walls. "You got in all right?"

They nodded wordlessly.

Fred caught Harry's eye and seemed to read the silent question.

"Everyone else is sleeping," he explained. "Well, Fleur had to go to work, but she's handing in the forms for Bill and her to take a leave of absence"

"How-how's everyone doing?" Hermione asked hesitantly.

The twins exchanged a dark look, an unspoken conversation passing between them.

"Bad," Fred said. George turned his head to the side for a moment, rubbing at his eyes. "Mum-she's crying all the time. But-But she's better than dad. We-we're worried about him. He just stares into space. Looking lost. Barely recognized Perkins when he came by with some food last night, and they've been working together for years"

He sighed, pulling a chair up and letting George take over the conversation.

"We think-we think he's in major shock. And mum's hurting too badly to help him. We all are. Ginny-Ginny's been crying almost as much as mum. Bill has Fleur, at least. Charlie-He's spent hours talking to Percy. And we have each other. Ginny's a bit-alone, right now. She always felt close to Ron"

Harry swallowed thickly, trying to ignore their eyes. He could feel the accusation in their stares, he knew they were thinking that he should have saved Ron.

"Percy's here?" Hermione asked.

The twins nodded. "It wasn't pretty when he pitched up. Had a huge row with him. And of course, that set mum off. We had to give her a Calming Draught"

A thick silence filled the room after those words, a silence that seemed to forebear conversation.

"Harry," Fred said, standing up suddenly and walking forward. "Dumbledore, he says that you were there. We-we need to know. What-What happened?"

He looked down, staring at his feet. And after a moment or two, he began to talk.

His voice came out dead, robotic.

No-one interrupted him while he was telling the story. No-one asked any questions.

He finished the story and waited, half-expecting them to shout at him, to scream at him for not saving Ron.

A part of him wanting them to scream.

But they didn't.

When Fred spoke next, Harry could hear that his voice was choked with tears.

"Thanks for-for trying. We're sorry that-that you had to see that"

He looked up in shock, finally meeting their eyes.

Hermione twined her hand in his, and he didn't notice.

"I-I-you're not mad?"

George snorted. "Mate, we're plenty mad. But not at you. You didn't kill him. You tried to save him"

"I-I should have-"

"You tried, Harry. You tried. Better than Slughorn did"

His eyes blurred, and his voice came out in a strange, high-pitched screech when he began to shout.

"I messed up! If I had just-had just summoned it, Ron would be-he'd be alive! It's my fault!"

"Harry," George said, more seriously than Harry had ever heard one of the twins speak. "You wanted him to live. It's not your fault. It's the fault of whoever poisoned him"

Beside his twin, Fred's nodded his head quickly.

"Could it have been Slughorn?"

Harry shook his head, feeling dazed again, feeling exhausted and decidedly incurious. "He-it was just chance that Ron drank before him. And I was-I was there, he couldn't have poisoned Ron's glass without me seeing"

A thought began to form, a possible idea of who the murderer could be.

But before he had the chance to dwell on it, Fred and George had seized him in a tight hug.

"Harry. Don't you fucking dare think it's your fault. It's not. And when we find out whose fault it is..."

And then he was standing in front of the open grave with Hermione at his side, the whole crowd staring at them.

The sun peeked through a crack in the clouds, its rays blinding him for an instant.

He'd been asked to say a few words, he and Hermione.

He looked out at the huge crowd. All of Gryffindor was there, the boys in their year wearing thick black armbands. He could see Luna, wearing a dress that made her look like she was going to fly away any minute. He saw Hagrid rubbing furiously at his eyes, standing next to Dumbledore and McGonagall.

He saw McLaggen, and for an instant, had to fight an insane urge to burst out laughing.

'He'll get to be Keeper now' he thought, and then had to fight the urge to vomit.

Hermione squeezed his hand, and he forced himself to speak.

"Ron-Ron was my first friend," he said and fell silent. He wanted to tell them about how he had been so intimidated to enter the wizarding world, how he had half-expected his social life to be no better than at the Dursley's. How he had expected that no-one would treat him like a normal guy since he was the Boy-Who-Lived. How, by the end of his first ride in the Hogwarts Express, Ron had totally removed his fears. He wanted to tell them how Ron once sacrificed himself to a giant chessboard, how Ron was terrified of spiders and still followed them into the Forbidden Forest. He wanted to tell them how Ron came to rescue him from the Dursleys in the middle of the night, how Ron once stood on a broken leg, standing up to someone he thought was a mass-murdering Death Eater, only to protect his friend.

He wanted to tell them a thousand things, about late night conversations and Quidditch, about choosing subjects together. He wanted to tell them about the empty hole inside him, how the pain was so large that he couldn't even feel it.

He wanted to tell them how unfair it was, that Bill and Fleur would be getting married and that Ron wouldn't be there to celebrate. How Ron wouldn't see another sunrise or rainstorm, wouldn't listen to another crappy Weird Sisters song, wouldn't go for another fly. How he would never get to play chess again, or watch the Cannons lose the series again.

He wanted to tell them everything, but he couldn't. The blockage in his throat had come back, and it wouldn't let any words through. He couldn't speak, he could barely even think. So he just managed to repeat himself, adding something small. "Ron was the first friend I ever made. And he was the best friend I've ever had"

He squeezed Hermione's hand, trying to tell her a hundred things. How he didn't mean to put her down, how he valued her beyond what he could even express, how he wanted, no, how he needed her friendship just to stay standing.

And he wanted to tell her to take over, that he couldn't talk in front of these people anymore.

She did, smoothly jumping into a story about Ron and Harry saving her from a troll.

Harry let the words flow over him, standing there with his head feeling like it was going to just float away.

It was only when they returned to Hogwarts that his daze broke. He walked into his bedroom and immediately saw it.

Ron's bed had been removed.

It made sense. There was only ever as many beds per room as were needed. But the wall shouldn't have been empty. Ron's bed should have been there, with its stupid Chudley Cannons sheets and its messy piles of clothes. It should have been there.

And suddenly, it was all too much. All the emotions he hadn't been feeling the last few days attacked as one, smothering his mind with the onslaught of guilt and rage and pain and fear and loss.

He saw Ron's face in his mind, turning purple. He saw Sirius, falling through the Veil. He heard his parents voices, the memory that the Dementors had tormented him with.

And it was all too much. Far too much. Too much pain for him to think through, too much loss for him to just act rationally, to somehow get over it.

Something inside of him turned to acid, filling the hole Ron's death had left behind.

He wasn't aware of dropping his bag and drawing his wand. He only really realized he'd even done it when he screamed and threw a blasting hex against the empty wall, the wall that should have been covered by Ron's bed. He was screaming, his pain somehow exponentially greater than it had been for Sirius. He was screaming, as he hexed the wall, again and again, and again, with tears running down his face and snot bubbling at his nose.

The pain was overwhelming, worse than being under Voldemort's Cruciatus, worse than Bellatrix's mocking taunts.

The pain was total, and he dropped his wand, falling to his knees and sobbing.

He didn't know how much time had passed before she was there, hugging him close and crying with him, her bushy hair trailing over his back.

And he knew it sounded selfish, but he said it anyway.

"Why does everyone I love have to leave me?"

Her grip tightened around him, he felt her body shaking with her cries, but when she spoke, her voice came through clearly.

"I'm not going anywhere, Harry. I'm here with you. I'm not going anywhere"

"I should have-should have been better. I could have saved him. It's my fault, just like Sirius. It's all my fault, and-"

"It. Isn't. Your. Fault"

She stared at him, looking angry. "It's not your fault, Harry. You tried. It's more Slughorn's fault than yours. He's a-a-a fucking Potions Master! He should have been able to save Ron!"

"But-"

Her words totally overrode his. "And more than that, it's the fault of the person who poisoned him! Probably the same person who gave Katie that cursed necklace, and now Ron's dead!"

And a bomb went off inside his head. His face twisted into an ugly snarl, as realization flashed.

Like a dam breaking, all the thoughts about who could have been behind Ron's poisoning, all the thoughts that had been hiding in the very back of his mind came flying forward.

Hermione saw his expression and flinched back.

"Malfoy" he growled, his eyes seeing everything through a red veil, his hands balling themselves into fists.

And then, he felt fury overtake him.

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