The shell cottage was warm, inviting, and yet Ron couldn't bring himself to go knock at that door and ask his older brother for hospitality. He had left Harry and Hermione maybe an hour ago — or was it more? — but it felt like an eternity already. He was angry; at them, at himself and at that bloody war. Disapparating aimlessly from place to place, he had hesitated for a moment to return to the Burrow, but he could already hear the sneering comment of Hermione: 'crawling back to mummy, eh?' Sometimes, she was just like Bellatrix: the same rage, the same cruelty could lace her words. She knew exactly where to aim and when to release the arrow to get the maximum amount of pain out of it. Mere seconds after, she was back to her old self: quiet and kind, albeit slightly different since…

He shook his head, lifting his chin up as if the proud gesture would chase the guilt away. He had seen how his friend had changed since her capture. How from a discreet young woman, she had turned into that reclusive stranger he had more trouble to approach everyday. Ron had always been the clumsy guy, not dealing well with all that 'feelings stuff'; he knew it. However, no one had ever reproached him his gawkiness, as it was part of his raw charm, somehow.

No, he didn't like having to deal with feelings and emotions. But what he had carefully buried in the back of his head right after leaving the forest of Dean was now coming back at him like a boomerang, slapping him harshly across the face. Hermione. The way she had looked at him with utter shock, before plain disgust. The words she had spat at him like venom, poisoning his heart.

"Fuck her," he mumbled alone on the hills, a gust of cold wind dishevelling his hair and bringing tears to the corners of his eyes. It was just the wind, wasn't it? Or maybe just anger; plain, storming anger.

Oh, angry he was. In this precise moment, everything, every single thing felt out of place; from the way his drenched clothes were gluing to his shivering skin like Hermione's voice in his mind, to the arrangement of stars in the dark nightscape; from that malevolent locket they had to carry around without a clue how to possibly destroy it, to Harry's silence.

"Harry…"

A jolt of pain surged in his chest as the redhead thought of his best friend. He had always considered him a brother, a nonmatching twin. His other brothers went by pair, except for Percy — but that didn't need any comment. Charlie and Bill, Fred and George… Ginny was the last one and a girl, so of course she was the sister everyone protected, everyone took her under their wing.

Harry was a brother.

And he had made him cry.

Guilt. That's what was growing in a heavy lump in his throat right now: guilt. He had watched helpless the raven-haired boy torn between Hermione and him, as they were throwing insults at each other. He had seen the green eyes watering with both anger and sadness. He knew he had hurt him — Hermione as well, if he was honest with himself, but he didn't want to think of this right now; he didn't want to take all the blame.

He watched the shell cottage farther down the hills, chewing nervously the inside of his cheek. What would Bill say? What would he think? Ron was confident he wouldn't tell their parents or other siblings, knowing they would be worried sick to know he was on his own, portrayed 'undesirable number three' by the Prophet on top of it. But there was more. They would be ashamed. Ashamed of this son who couldn't, for once, behave; of that oafish brother who was always fighting to gain a place, his place; of that umpteenth Gryffindor, who wasn't as charismatic as his eldest brothers, as talented in Quidditch, as funny; who would never be prefect. He was Ron, just Ron. His only significant achievement thus far had been to befriend Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, the Chosen one.

It was starting to get really cold. His red hair had taken a darker shade because of its wetness, and was now rigid to the touch, slowly freezing in an improbable hairdo. No spell could warm him up, and he had resigned himself to endure it, stubbornly burying his hands in the pockets of his pants. Merlin, that warm, welcoming house looked tempting. He fidgeted on his spot, his foot playing absentmindedly with the long, yellowish grass.

He let out an annoyed grunt and started to march towards the house, fighting against the wind to progress and not lose his balance on the slippery slope that led to Bill's sanctuary. Ah! Screw it! Now he had his left shoe full of san-

A stronger blast of wind managed to destabilise him, and he hurtled down the end of the hill like a snowball, landing with a loud, dull thud. He stayed like this, a cheek painfully rubbing against the harsh sand which was now not only in his left shoe, but also in the right, in his t-shirt, pants. Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful.

The deluminator felt hard, inimical against his chest. He had started to wear it as a necklace, afraid to lose it — and still hoping the strange device would prove itself useful in time. The metal was a cold reminder of that lost adventure, of the friends he had left.

For the first time since several months, Ron cried.

There was no point in feeling embarrassed anymore, of hiding it; right now, he felt like the loneliest person in the world, being left with himself for sole company. His mind filled with slurs and self-hatred that reflected on every corner of his soul, he screamed in agony, unleashing his wrath as he furiously beat his fist against the hard soil. The pain was exhilarating, addictive. He winced, disgusted by every inch of his being, suddenly feeling the animalistic need to destroy every part of himself, to free that storm that boiled under his skin. A bestial smile deformed his traits as he felt his hand giving up: the knuckles and nails were bleeding and darkened by nasty bruises. Some of the phalanx were broken, sending welcomed waves of pain in his brain. He closed his eyes, happy to feel…

Nothing. No anger, no happiness; there was only a peaceful void in his mind, for which he was more than thankful. The final nervous breakdown came when he started to laugh darkly, unable to stop himself. He was looking marvelled at his mauled hand, fascinated by the strange angles it made and how the glistening red liquid was running on his skin in thin lines, disappearing under his sleeve, when a creaking startled him out of his morbid contemplation.

In the ray of light the opened door offered, he recognised Bill, standing patiently on his porch, his arms crossed on his chest. At one of the window, Ron distinguished his sister-in-law, Fleur, her scared little faced pressed against the glass, hoping to see 'what ze 'ell waz going on zhere'. Sniffing audibly, Ron stood up, his head made a bit dizzy by the tears and the screams. When he came face to face with his brother, there was no words, no greetings; Bill stepped aside, motioning for him to come inside before closing the door, putting on basic magical wards around the house.

"Bill? Who iz— Ron?" Fleur came running towards her brother-in-law, looking with a retching noise at his bleeding hand. "Qu'est-ce qu'il s'est passé? What happened to your hand?" The concern was obviously winning over her delicate nature; as she was looking frantically between the two men, silently questioning her husband as to how he could remain so calm.

"Fleur, chérie, I'll take care of it. Go get some rest, tomorrow will certainly be a long day." He looked at his wife tenderly and if she found the idea ridiculous, she kept it for herself, whispering a low goodnight in his hear before disappearing upstairs. They heard a door close, and the house was again bathed in silence.

The two brothers remained quiet, as if both wondering where to start. From a mutual, tacit agreement, they moved to the opened kitchen, Bill starting to brew some tea while Ron let himself sink on the nearest stool. The throbbing pain in his hand was the only thing keeping him awake: he was so tired and emotionally drained that he could have fallen asleep right there where he sat.

"How did you know it was me?" he eventually asked, looking at his brother with a slight frown.

From the distance, in the dark, he must have been just a huddled up silhouette; he could have been anybody really, and yet, he hadn't felt a second of hesitation from his brother. The door had been opened for him, and nobody had judged necessary to ask him one of those 'secret questions'. Even Harry had been asked by Lupin, once.

There was a heavy sigh on the other side of the kitchen, followed by a brief, amused chuckle.

"Ron, you're my brother," he stated matter-of-factly, taping the kettle with his wand. "I'd recognised you anywhere. Besides, your colourful language is unmistakable." He turned around with a steamy cup of earl grey that he handed to Ron. "As well as your smell," he added with a tender smile.

At those words, the runaway felt warmth radiating inside his chest, not sure that the hot beverage he held was responsible for that. Biting his lower lip, he nodded wordlessly, the small grains of sand crispy under his teeth. Bill tilted his head to the side, as if the young Gryffindor was a riddle to solve. "I hope it's not a new cologne, because I doubt it will work wonders with the ladies," he said, desirous to ease the growing tension.

Ron chuckled and shrugged. "It drives them crazy," he said, drinking the scalding hot tea, burning the tip of his tongue in the process. "Not the right kind of crazy, unfortunately."

"Try me: I married a French. Quarter-veela, on top of it!"

They laughed at that last comment, falling in confortable quietness, disrupted only by the sound of careful lips sipping piping tea. After what seemed to be an eternity, the oldest brother cleaned his sibling's clothes with a wave of the wrist, the tip of his wand gleaming faintly. Gone was the disagreeable feeling of harsh sand rubbing against his skin, for which Ron was thankful. "I'll find you something for the night," he said, walking tiredly towards the stairs. "Meanwhile, put your clothes here," he indicated someplace with a vague motion of the hand. "I'll wash them tomorrow."

Ron obeyed, undressing wordlessly, repressing whimpers of pain as his hand brushed the sleeve of his jacket. The strain of the run had been a hard blow for his body; he had lost some weight, his skin had gone from pale to a sick complexion and dark rings underlined his eyes. It was a sad spectacle offered to Bill's eyes, when he came back downstairs.

"I found those old py—" He stopped on his track, taking notice of Ron's change of appearance he hadn't seen prior, with all the clothes on. "—jamas," he finished.

The younger boy, standing awkwardly in his underwear, arms protectively wrapped around his torso, merely looked like the shadow of the jovial little brother Bill had known. This young man was suddenly a stranger. The Weasleys had never had a dark complexion, but the redhead looked ill. The only spots were his skin didn't look so pallid, were the ones covered by bruises or angry cuts.

But the worst was his eyes, Bill thought. They shown no more light, no more hope; they didn't care anymore.

With a wave of his wand, Bill cleaned the bulk that was his brother, before trying to heal him with the basic spells he knew. "You'll need some special potion for your hand," he said, tired and defeated. "I managed to stop the bleeding, but I can't fix the broken bones." His brother simply nodded; if he was still in pain, he didn't let it show, keeping quiet, his eyes resolutely fixed on the floor. "I'm sorry, Ron."

"Don't be."

A nod, another smothering silence.

"Are Hermione and Harry alright?"

Ron's lips twitched at the names, a wave of guilt and anger washing over him all of the sudden.

"No," he said after a moment. Bill's eyes immediately grew wider, panicked not only at his brother's statement but also at his non-caring tone. "No, not like–… They're safe, Bill," Ron added right away. Were they? Safe? "We got in a fight together," he explained, "and I left." His brother didn't ask for more details, nor did he judge him. Or at least, he's good at hiding it, thought Ron, shrugging awkwardly. "Do you mind if I go to sleep now? It's been a while since I last slept in a real bed and… I think I really need it."

"Sure, just— it's the last room on the right, upstairs."

Whilst on the run with his two friends, Ron had never had a peaceful night. Nor did Harry and Hermione. They had settled they would wear the horcrux at night too, arranging for a turnover, afraid of what would happen if they had to run in the middle of the night because of potential snatchers, as it had actually been the case on several occasion. Wearing that thing on daylight was something already: it almost instantly gave them the feeling of a weight on their chest, breathing became difficult and every dark thought would start popping up in their head randomly, pushing them to violent outbursts. But wearing it whilst sleeping? Harry would start having visions again, of loved-ones tortured because of him. He'd wake in a jolt, his mother's last scream still ringing in his ears. Ron was tormented by images of his siblings he couldn't save from the cold hand of Death; each time he had to choose who to save, who not to. Each time someone had to die, and it couldn't be him; he had to be the one who stayed, the one to remember. But Hermione…

Hermione was the worst. She wasn't only seeing it in her dreams; it was like she was reliving it again. She would scream and cry in her sleep, unable to wake up; when she eventually did, it was with a jolt, her body burning in agony. The scar she would always try to hide was red like the day it had been etched, the nasty word taunting her, once again.

Nevertheless, the three friends had decided it was for the best to keep the horcrux close, even if that meant dreadful nights. Since Voldemort had already been in Harry's head more than once in the past, they had agreed — despite the dark haired boy's protests — that only Ron and Hermione would wear the necklace at night, afraid that somehow, it would permit the Dark Lord to enter the boy's mind.

This night hadn't been peaceful, either. But it had been dreamless, which was the closest of 'peaceful' Ron would experience in months. His body was still aching. He took a look at his hand and winced with both pain and disgust at the dark purple of his swollen skin. What an idiot. He smiled sadly, hearing her voice, melting with his hoarse one. He eventually got up, slowly dressing in the clothes Bill had left for him, trying to get his body to cooperate. Having a night when he didn't have to worry about being suddenly attacked seemed to have lowered his capacity to push himself, to force those tired muscles to function, because Ron felt drained.

He got down the stairs like an automat, his legs knowing their way better than him, which somehow reminded him of his worst boozings at Hogwarts, when Harry had had to get him a bucket to pass the night. From the kitchen was floating the sweet perfume of coffee and warm bread, which made his stomach rumble loudly. Merlin, there's food. Food and coffee.

The smile that had crept on his face faltered almost instantly as he saw what accompanied the promised breakfast, which started to feel like a last supper.

McGonagall was siting on a chair, stiff as a board, quietly sipping her tea whilst chatting with Bill. Both stopped their conversation when they noticed the newcomer. Ron's legs grew weak and he wasn't certain why. His brother was looking at him with eyes full of excuses, and McGonagall…

He just couldn't look her in the face.

"Professor, Bill," he said, wetting his lips nervously. "I — err — I just wanted some coffee," he whispered, marching hurriedly towards the table where the kettle laid. "I don't want to interrupt, I —"

A hand, softer than what he had expected.

An old, steady hand on his own, unsure and shaking.

"Now mister Weasley, maybe you'd let me heal that before anything else?"

He clenched his fists, desperately trying to contain his trembling. It would have been easier if she had started to yell at him, he thought. It would have been so much easier if she were just the cold Head of House he deserved.

He nodded, not trusting his voice to say anything articulated, and wordlessly sat at the table, under the worried gaze of his brother. McGonagall carefully took the broken hand in hers, inspecting it for a minute before mumbling soft incantations that made the bones stick together with a nasty crack. It hurt. Deeply. But Ron merely closed his eyes for a second, inhaling deeply.

"It is still fragile, I'm afraid you'll have to drink some skele-grow potion."

Well implied that the drink was nasty as well.

"Thanks," he breathed after a moment, seemingly lost in thoughts. The Scottish witch and the werewolf both exchanged a glance.

Ron stayed quiet, knowing to well what his brother was dying to ask and what the Head of Gryffindor was to polite to say, the tumult under Bill's red hair warming the entire kitchen up.

"Just ask it already, Bill," he finally said, pouring himself a cup of coffee and sipping the boiling hot with a weird sense of comfort. Hot coffee. How he had missed it.

"What happened to your hand?" Well, his brother certainly didn't lose any time. "Was it Harry or Hermione?"

That… wasn't quite expected.

The sip went to wrong way, ending in Ron coughing loudly, looking half angry half confused at his brother. McGonagall for her part was looking at them both with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity.

"Harry or Hermione? What on the bloody —"

"You said you had a fight," Bill pointed out, hastily cutting his little brother's incoming swearing, eyeing his former professor apologetically.

"For Merlin's sake, Bill, we had a row. And it was only with Hermione, Harry he… he was just there, that's all."

Hearing the name of her protégée, it took Minerva's greatest self-control not to spit her own drink on the tablecloth.

"Then what —"

"I was pissed."

Both his interlocutors looked at him curiously, ending in him blushing slightly, what he tried to cover up with a shrug.

"I needed a release."

"And breaking your bones seemed like a thing to do?" Why was his brother all irritated, all of the sudden? Ron didn't get it. He was about to retort something but the tirade wasn't finished, obviously. "What if nobody had been home? What if professor McGonagall hadn't been able to come and fix your foolishness?" Oh perfect, so they were back to this, as always. "Are you not enough in bad shape to your liking?" Wait. What? "Those cuts and bruises I saw last night, it's also your doing? You needed a release as well?"

Ron had never seen his brother so angry, so… bitter. He didn't understand why actually, but accepted the words thrown at his face without any retaliation.

"Bill, I think it would be for the best that you left me with your brother, alone."

The man seemed to be startled out of his thoughts, like he had somehow managed to forget his former Head of House right next to them. He opened his mouth, as if to add something, but stopped himself, merely nodding as he moved to leave the house.

"Should you need me I'll be by the shores," he simply stated, leaving a heavy silence behind him.

Ron didn't know whether to be thankful for his professor's intervention, or to fear what would be coming next. Adamantly averting her burning eyes, he kept his on the steaming cup in front of him, full of resolve. McGonagall stiffened on her chair. The question was burning her throat and her mind since she had learnt about the Trio's departure. She knew they were more or less all right despite their recklessness; had they been caught, no doubt it would have been splashed in big letters across the first page of the Daily Prophet. But still, even though her cubs had been 'safe' until now, it didn't mean that things were fine.

"Where are Hermione and Harry?" she blurted out of nowhere, merely able to hold her tongue not to just ask directly about her protégée's well being.

"I don't know."

"You don't?" Her voice had reached dangerous heights, which they both noticed with a sharing awkwardness. "How can you not know," she added, that little loss of control soon replaced by her usual confidence and stiffness.

"We never stay at the same place more than one night," Ron explained with a calm he didn't know he possessed. "That's the rule," he added, his former teacher obviously far too annoyed to produce the slightest noise and acknowledge his sayings. "One time we didn't and…"

Seeing the constipated look of the witch, he wasn't sure telling her all this was his brightest idea. Ha! Stupid Gryffindor's audacity!

"They found us."

McGonagall's face had gone paler with those words, Ron noticed, but he continued nevertheless.

"Hermione later said she must have forgotten to — err — link? Link some of her concealments charms and that security leak revealed our presence."

"Yes, high concealments spells need to be built like a web," said the witch, starring absentmindedly into space. "Should one thread be defective, the entire structure is compromised." Her lips stretched into a melancholic smile, as she imagined her pupil frowning in concentration, never fully happy with her wand's movements even though they were perfect. "I suppose this is where those cuts," she gestured somehow tiredly to support her words, "— come from?"

After a moment, "Yes."

"What happened?"

Ron shifted uneasy on his chair, but his act of disinterest came back in place quickly enough, as he muttered with a shrug of shoulders, "They burst into the tent and… Well, Harry always sleeps in the spare room, in case something like that happens, because it's not right after the entrance. Hermione and I were in the living-room." He took a sip of coffee, the cup slightly trembling in his hand. "They couldn't find the spare room because Hermione had taken the precaution of putting some sort of additional wards around it, so they got angry and their questions became a bit more… insistent." At this point he'd have sworn he'd just seen McGonagall retch. "But you know how Harry is," Ron said with the faintest smile. "He can never stick to the plan. I guess his sudden appearance in those rags he calls pyjamas was startling enough, because they stopped beating us up for a sec'. I think he broke one of our aggressors' noses before stupefying him. We managed to take the second one down, and the third…" He took a deep breath. "Hermione killed him."

Saying this, he rose up and put his cup in the sink, his back turned on his former teacher. He didn't turn when he heard the scraping of a chair against the floor, nor the pained whisper that crossed her lips, "She— what?"

"For her defence, I don't think she really meant for it to happen. It just… did." He turned around, a compassionate expression in his eyes. "In fact, it took her quite some time to get over it, and I'm still not sure she's completely… processed it."

He left out the fact he had heard her crying to sleep more than one time after that, and that her nightmares had worsened. This would serve nothing, would it? McGonagall could not be of any help with that, and anyway, he had no way of finding his two friends again. That was just something Hermione had to work out on her own. As for the Head of Gryffindor, she just needed to hear that her star student was ok; even with his spoon-range of emotions, he understood that.

"But that doesn't mean she wouldn't do it again."

McGonagall looked at him her brows arched in surprise, hurt as the pristine image she had of her pupil was scratched angrily by those strong words.

"It's not a bad thing," Ron added, noticing he was being misunderstood, as his intention was not to overthrow his friend from the pedestal people put her on, like the Scot seemed to see it. "She did what needed to be done, she always does." Not only did that resonate in Minerva's mind, but in his as well. Like suddenly, he was seeing his friend under a new light, maybe understand her better than he ever had. "She's not afraid to make hard decision when the situation requires it, and she's made a lot of sacrifices for our mission already. She's stronger than you seem to think, she's a fighter, you know? She'll be alright."

"I know," was all Minerva had to offer, still processing the information, Hermione associated with kill not making much sense in her brain.

"She misses you," Ron said after a moment, not daring to look at the witch as the words crossed his lips.

The Scot looked at him with a strange mixture of dread and childish happiness, a warm she hadn't feel for quite some time now bubbling up inside her. She felt strangely peaceful, as a timid smile stretch on the corner of her lips.

"She told you?"

"No."

The answer had been said casually, but Minerva could see the boy was clearly hurt.

"It's no big deal, I mean I don't care," he added with a forced chuckle. "She's afraid to tell me, that's fine. I'll wait for when she'll be ready."

"You're not upset?"

She didn't want to sound rude but considering Ron's moody antecedents she'd had years to witness back in Hogwarts, there was matter to be a least a bit surprised by that sudden gentleness and tact.

"Well, of course I am —" Oh, right, Minerva snorted mentally. One does never fully change, I suppose. "— She's my best friend and she's afraid to tell me you two are together. I mean I get that it must be somehow scary but that's vexing, not to be trusted after so much time."

… What? Minerva was looking at the ginger with her mouth slightly opened, blinking several times.

"I meant — about us. You're not upset about us?"

Merlin, was she really having this conversation with one of her former student? Ronald Weasley, on top of it?

"Eh? Why would I?" He was looking at her like she was suddenly the dumbest person alive. "She's my best friend," he repeated slowly, to be sure she'd get it, "so as long as you do not break her heart, no, I will not be upset."

"Glad to hear it, Mr. Weasley," she said, looking fondly at the young man like she was really seeing him for the first time.

They let themselves be absorbed by a comforting silence again, lost in their own thoughts yet sharing the same concern.

"I suppose you don't have any means to return to your friends?"

"They already have changed their location and I have no way of contacting them, and they can't contact me either." His voice was sad, tired, Minerva noticed. But it was steady, which surprised her. She had expected to break down at some point, but he was obviously full of surprises. "So maybe… I could come at Hogwarts? Could you hide me?"

"Hide you?"

The words echoed in her head as she breathed them, livid. Hogwarts wasn't safe anymore, not with that snake as Headmaster and his two lackeys. She wasn't even able to protect usual students; she had failed at what Dumbledore had trusted her with. But to think she would be able to hide Ronald Weasley, whose head was sold quite the price? No, it wouldn't last two days before he'd be discovered.

"I can't." He looked surprised, hurt almost. "I'm afraid Hogwarts is not a safe place anymore, let alone for you. Perhaps you haven't heard with your time on the run, but Severus Snape has been named Headmaster." The redhead audibly gasped, fully realising what that meant. "His master —" she said the word with obvious distaste, "— lent him two marked leeches to help him with his task of purifying the school." She looked at him with a sudden fire burning in her eyes, something Ron hadn't seen in quite some time. "But I'm nothing if not resourceful," she added a bit crisply, almost daring him to contradict her. "There might be a way to send you back to your friends, but this is a one and one time only, so I hope you and Hermione will manage to keep your respective temper under control."

She sighed, knowing perfectly well how dangerous this was and hating the fact she was putting others at risk instead of herself. She called nonetheless, the name barely audibly past her tired lips: Hazel.

The house elf was summoned almost instantly. Suddenly she was here, eyeing Ron curiously before turning her attention towards McGonagall, bowing ever so slightly.

"The mistress asked for me?"

The witch nodded silently. Her uncertainty didn't go unnoticed by the tiny servant. She looked at the boy, waiting for her employer to gather her thoughts.

"You are a friend of Hermione, are you not?" Ron nodded, blushing lightly which the house elf didn't understand. Those humans were sometimes embarrassed by the most surprising things.

"That's the reason I called for you, Hazel," said McGonagall. "I have a… favour to ask of you."

"Well, anything for you, you know that."

The witched chuckled mirthlessly. "On the paper, yes, I know that, but… what I require you to do might put you in harm's way." She knew that Hazel wouldn't care, or at least, would pretend not to. She had served the McGonagall clan since before Minerva's birth and had sworn to protect that witch she held dear in her heart; of course she would accept anything that was asked of her, even if Minerva gave her the choice, even if death was suddenly a possibility. "Hazel, I will put you in harm's way," she added, clenching her jaw to suppress the tremolo in her voice.

"Anything," repeated the elf, with a sad smile but a confident voice, her small hand briefly touching Minerva's as a reassurance.

"I need you to take mister Weasley here back to his friends." The servant remained silent. "To his friends whose location is currently unknown," added McGonagall.

"Alright."

"Hazel, do you understand what I'm selfishly asking of you? Because if —"

"I do," cut the house elf. "But you know that elves' magic partly obeys yours, so at the end, it is your call, mistress."

McGonagall sat up straight on her chair and took a deep breath, praying that an alternative would find its way to her brain in the remaining seconds… but the situation was hopeless. The mission that had been trusted upon them was bigger than anything else, than any love, any attachment, and at the end they were all just pawns to be sacrificed on Dumbledore's chessboard.

"From now on," she said with a strained voice, "you will serve Hermione Granger as well. You… You are now bound to keep her out of harm's way, no matter what," she finished, forcing the words that would surely send her elf — her friend — to her death, past her trembling lips.

"Thank you, mistress," retorted the elf, not without emotion herself.

Ron, who had followed the entire scene like in a dream, suddenly seemed to wake up.

"Wait a minute, can a — can a elf serve two distinct — err — families? I always thought they were bound to a clan, unless their master freed them."

"Well, when an elf has been part of a family for so many decades, their magic merge with the one of the clan. Like a long friendship, no words can really break it," explained McGonagall, looking tenderly at Hazel, who was fidgeting with her toga, her cheeks displaying a slight blush.

"But she will be serving Hermione as well? That's the only way she'll be able to locate her, right?"

"That is correct, yes."

"But then… she won't stay with us, will she? She'll return to Hogwarts, with you?"

"That is my hope, and unless Hermione decides otherwise — which won't happen, knowing her aversion for the wizards' cast system — Hazel will indeed come back to the castle with me. That's what I implied when I said it was a one and one time only. But in practice, it's not quite that simple," she finished sadly.

"What do you mean?"

"An elf is bound to protect the wizard or the witch they serve." It was Hazel who had spoken this time. "No matter the consequences."

"So that means…" began Ron in a whisper, realisation dawning upon him.

"That she might have to die in order to save Hermione from a dreadful fate because of that magical bound" finished the scot, locking her eyes into Hazel's, silently begging for forgiveness.

The house elf seemed to understand the witch's inner torment.

"Which is no different from my bound to you," she said with a shrug. "Except maybe by the fact you were more than able to look after yourself."

"But if she comes back with you at Hogwarts —" began the redhead, trying for find a flaw in the link between his friend and the house elf.

"It doesn't matter," explained Minerva flatly. "The ancient magic that flows between wizards and elves is very powerful. They could be worlds apart, Hazel would still feel in her magic that Hermione is in danger. If that's the case, she'll have to disapparate. Think of it as some sort of unbreakable vow: there's no way to break it or to disobey its terms."

"Isn't there another way?"

"No."

Professor McGonagall's voice was back and her eyes were suddenly hard, indicating that the discussion was closed.

"Elf's magic is not traceable, unlike ours. And no wizard, as dark he might be, would dare interrogate an house elf."

Ron wondered an instant if it was because of that secret power the elves' magic seemed to contain, or because the followers of Voldemort were all strong believers of the blood purity and of the supremacy of the true wizards upon any other race.

"Hazel?" Minerva rose from her chair. "I believe it's time."

The house elf nodded, extending her arm towards Ron whose eyes remained fixed on his former teacher.

"Can I say goodbye? To my brother?" He knew the answer already, of course, but there's no harm in asking.

"The longer you stay, the longer you put them at risk," whispered the woman, like a mantra. "I'll already have to obliviate them after your departure; don't add weight to that burden."

"Obli— what?"

She looked at him, gauging the boy with a certain disdain. So much for maturity…

"We're at war, Ronald," she said with a glacial composure. "I survived two already, and did much worse things that erasing a cumbersome memory, trust me on that." She looked up and down on him with a slight smirk. That boy had seen his fair part of that war already, but was still far from imagining the horrors perpetuated under Grindelwald's reign. "My mission is to keep our camp alive, to keep you alive, so that you can accomplish whatever Dumbledore was foolish enough to burden you with. Without your brother and his dear wife remembering seeing you, everyone's safer. Do not make the mistake of thinking You-know-who won't use any means to get to you and your friends. Your blood purity is the only thing protecting your family for now." She gave some kind of snort, like an angry horse ready to throw his hoof at a predator. "Hazel," she repeated curtly, her cold eyes still locked with Ron's. "It's time. I'll await you in my quarters. Be safe." She walked towards the door, ready to meet Bill and Fleur her wand in hand. She stopped briefly, her head turning slowly on her shoulder. "And Mister Weasley? Be sure to transmit my love to Hermione."

With that, the three of them left the Shell Cottage, the empty cups on the table being the only proof of their presence.

A.N: Thanks to those who stayed despite the lack of update, and for your kind reviews: it really means a lot!