"Yeah?" I said, letting the blood rush to my head. 

"If you throw that blasted Snitch one more time, I am going to vanish it. And I won't bring it back." 

"It’s a kinetic exercise," I argued, flipping myself upright. The rush of blood returning to the rest of my body made me dizzy for a second. "Keeps the Seeker reflexes sharp. Constant vigilance, and all that." 

YN finally looked at me. She pushed a lock of dark, frizzy hair out of her eyes. She looked tired. We’d been here for six days. Six days of surveillance on a warlock suspected of trafficking prohibited dark artifacts. Six days of watching a cottage down the hill where absolutely nothing happened. 

"You were a Keeper," she pointed out dryly. 

"Same principle. Hand-eye coordination." I sat up, tossing the Snitch from hand to hand. "Besides, what else am I supposed to do with my time?" 

There it was. The question that had been haunting me for the better part of a year. 

It wasn't just about the stakeout. It was the bigger picture. I wasn't at Hogwarts anymore; that part of my life was a history book chapter. I wasn't at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes anymore, either. I’d helped George get back on his feet after the war, helped him stabilize the chaos, but I realized about eighteen months ago that retail—even magical, explosive retail—wasn't for me. I couldn't spend the rest of my life stocking Skiving Snackboxes and forcing a smile while people asked me if I was the brother who died or the brother who lived. 

So, I joined the Auror office. Harry was there, of course, rocketing up the ranks. But I was trying to carve out something else. A quiet competence. And currently, that competence involved sitting in a damp living room with YN. 

YN sighed, putting down her quill. She wasn't an Auror; she was a Curse-Breaker on loan from Gringotts because the suspect was rumored to have wards that would turn a standard Ministry employee into a potted fern. She was brilliant, sharp-tongued, and terrifyingly focused. 

"You could read the dossier again," she suggested. 

"I’ve read it. Malachi Thorne. Ex-dealer in Knockturn Alley. Likes antique teapots and cursing his neighbors' cats. Currently suspected of hiding a Cursed Necklace of Opal in his pantry. It’s not exactly a thriller, YNN." 

"Don't call me YNN." 

"YN," I corrected, leaning forward. "Come on. We’ve been staring at that house for fourteen hours straight today. The man is asleep. The wards are static. Let’s do something." 

"I am doing something. I’m calculating the arithmancy required to dismantle his perimeter if we have to breach tonight." 

"Boring," I sang out, standing up and stretching. My back cracked in three places. "I’m hungry. Are you hungry? I’m going to make toast." 

"The toaster is broken, Ron." 

"I’m a wizard. I’ll use my wand." 

"You’ll burn it." 

"I will char it with style." 

I walked into the kitchenette. It was a sad little space with peeling yellow linoleum. I grabbed a loaf of Muggle bread and set two slices on a plate. I pointed my wand. "Incendio." 

A jet of flame shot out. The bread instantly turned into two square pucks of carbon. Smoke billowed up, instantly filling the small room. 

"I can smell your success from here," YN called out from the living room. 

I vanished the smoke with a grumble and banished the burnt toast into the bin. "Fine. Sandwiches. Cold, sad sandwiches." 

I assembled two plates of ham and cheese—no magic required—and carried them back out. I set one down on top of YN’s notes. 

She glared at me, but she picked up the sandwich. "You’re restless." 

"I’m not restless. I’m unused to inactivity. Growing up, my house was… loud. Then school was… life-threatening. Then the shop was… loud again. Silence makes me itch." 

YN took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. She watched me with those dark, analytical eyes. She wasn't classically pretty in the way the Prophet liked to describe witches; she had a sharp nose and a scar on her chin from a tomb in Egypt, and she wore oversized jumpers that swallowed her frame. But there was an intensity to her that I found myself constantly drawn to. 

"You left the shop," she said. It wasn't a question. 

"Yeah." 

"Why? Everyone loves the shop. It’s a goldmine." 

I sank back into the sofa, taking a large bite of my sandwich to buy time. "It’s George’s dream. It was Fred’s dream. I was just… filling a space. Holding the door open. Once George could stand on his own again, I felt like a spare part. The famous sidekick selling love potions." I swallowed. "I wanted to be the one solving the puzzle, not the one selling the distraction." 

YN looked at her half-eaten sandwich, then back at the window where the rain continued its assault. "And now you’re here. Watching a teapot enthusiast sleep." 

"It’s the glamour of the job," I joked. "But seriously. What do you do? When you’re not breaking curses or calculating death probabilities? How do you fill the silence?" 

YN hesitated. She wasn't one for small talk. In the six days we’d been partnered, I’d learned she liked her tea black, she hated the color pink, and she was terrified of spiders (which was an excellent bonding moment for us). But personal history? That was locked behind high-level wards. 

"I read," she said simply. 

"Come on. That’s a cop-out answer. What do you do?" 

She leaned back, crossing her arms. "I restore old clocks." 

I blinked. "Clocks?" 

"Muggle clocks. Grandfather clocks, mantle clocks, pocket watches. The mechanical kind. Gears and springs." 

"Why?" 

"Because they make sense," she said, her voice softening just a fraction. "Magic is… temperamental. It relies on intent, emotion, pronunciation. But a clock? If a gear is broken, you replace it. If the spring is wound, it ticks. It’s logical. It’s orderly. It’s something I can control." 

I looked at her, really looked at her. I’d always assumed Curse-Breakers were adrenaline junkies, diving into tombs and dodging hexes. But looking at YN, I saw someone who dealt with chaos by seeking order. 

"My dad likes Muggle stuff," I said quietly. "Plugs. Batteries. He’d love a look at your clocks." 

"Maybe I’ll show him sometime," she said, and then immediately looked like she regretted offering. She cleared her throat. "Check the scope. Has Thorne moved?" 

I picked up the Omnioculars from the coffee table and peered through the rain-streaked window. The cottage down the hill was dark. "Nothing. Not even a glimmer. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe he bored himself to death." 

I lowered the glasses and looked at YN. The silence was creeping back in, heavy and suffocating. I couldn't handle it. 

"I bet I can beat you at cards," I blurted out. 

YN raised an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge, Weasley?" 

"Exploding Snap. Best of three. Loser has to make the tea for the rest of the stakeout." 

She smirked. It was the first time I’d seen her actually smile in days. It changed her face completely, softening the edges. "You’re on. But I play by Gringotts rules." 

"What are Gringotts rules?" 

"Violent." 

An hour later, the coffee table was singed, my eyebrows were slightly scorched, and I was laughing harder than I had in months. 

"That’s cheating!" I yelled as YN deftly deflected a card that exploded mid-air, sending the soot straight into my face. 

"Reflexes, Ron," she teased, shuffling the deck with a fluid, mesmerizing motion. "I thought you were a Keeper?" 

"I am! But I’m used to Quaffles, not incendiary playing cards launched by a witch with a vendetta!" 

I wiped the soot from my cheek, still grinning. The gloom of the safe house had lifted. The rain was still hammering down, but it felt less like a prison and more like a shelter now. 

"Okay," I said, catching my breath. "One to one. Tie-breaker." 

YN set the deck down. The playful light in her eyes dimmed slightly, replaced by that sharp curiosity again. "Before we play. Answer the question you asked me earlier." 

"Which one?" 

" 'What else am I supposed to do with my time?' You asked it like it was a burden. Like you’re waiting for something." 

I stopped shuffling. The mood shifted. It wasn't bad, just… real. 

"I guess…" I struggled to find the words. I was used to deflecting with humor. It’s the Weasley way. But YN didn't seem like she’d accept a joke right now. "After the war, everything was so… fast. Funerals, rebuilding, the media, the Ministry. I kept moving because if I stopped, I’d have to think about everything we lost. About Fred." 

I looked down at the cards, the charred edges crumbling under my thumb. 

"But now, things are settling. Harry’s got Ginny and his career. Hermione is changing the world one law at a time. And I’m just… here. I’m trying to figure out who Ron Weasley is when he’s not saving the world or being a brother. I have this time now. This quiet time. And I’m terrified I’m going to waste it." 

YN reached out. For a second, I thought she was going to take the cards. Instead, she laid her hand over mine. Her skin was cool, her fingers long and ink-stained. 

"You’re not wasting it," she said firmly. "You’re healing. There’s a difference. You can’t rush normalcy, Ron. It’s not a race." 

I looked up at her. Her eyes were dark and serious, but there was a warmth there I hadn't noticed before. 

"You think?" 

"I know. I spent three years in the tombs of Peru after I finished school. I didn't speak to another human for weeks at a time. I thought I was broken because I couldn't handle society. Turns out, I just needed to calibrate my own gears. Fix my own springs." 

"Like a clock," I smiled weakly. 

"Exactly." She squeezed my hand, then pulled back, sensing the vulnerability was reaching critical mass. "Deal the cards, Weasley. I want my tea." 

We played. It was vicious. It was loud. And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like a spare part. I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. 

I won, by the way. Pure luck, or maybe she let me win. I wasn't going to ask. 

"Tea," I commanded, pointing at the kitchen. "Milk, two sugars. And don't magic it. The kettle adds flavor." 

YN rolled her eyes, but she got up. "You’re insufferable." 

"I’m charming. It’s part of the package." 

While she was in the kitchen, I went back to the window. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. The moon was trying to break through the clouds. I looked down at the cottage. 

A light. 

It was faint, just a flicker in the downstairs window of Thorne’s house. Then, a shadow moved across it. 

"YN," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "He’s active." 

The teasing atmosphere vanished instantly. YN was at my side in a second, tea forgotten. She pulled out a different pair of spectacles—spectrespecs modified for magical signature detection—and slid them on. 

"Confirmed," she whispered. "I’m reading a spike in dark energy. Third quadrant. He’s opening the vault." 

"Do we breach?" I asked, hand already gripping my wand. My heart hammered against my ribs, but it wasn't fear. It was focus. 

"Not yet," she murmured. "If we breach while the vault is cycling, the backlash could level the village. We have to wait for the stabilization. Two minutes." 

"Two minutes," I repeated. 

We stood shoulder to shoulder in the dark living room, watching the faint pulses of violet light emanating from the cottage down the hill. The silence was back, but it wasn't empty. It was charged. 

"Hey," I whispered, eyes fixed on the target. 

"Focus, Ron." 

"I am focused. Just… thanks." 

"For what?" 

"For the game. For… listening." 

She didn't look at me, but I saw the corner of her mouth twitch. "Don't get sentimental on me before a raid. It ruins my aim." 

"Right. Professional detachment. Got it." 

"Thirty seconds," she counted down. "Shields up." 

I cast a silent Protego over both of us, layering it close to the skin. "Ready when you are." 

"Ten seconds. On my mark, we Disapparate to the perimeter. You take the front door, I’ll deconstruct the wards on the window." 

"Got it." 

"Three. Two. One. Mark." 

The world twisted. The smell of dust and damp dog vanished, replaced by the sharp, ozone scent of wet grass and dark magic. 

The raid was a blur. It usually is. You train for hours, wait for days, and the actual event takes less time than boiling an egg. 

Thorne was waiting, but he wasn't expecting a Curse-Breaker. He threw a Nasty Withershins Hex at the door, expecting it to hold us back. YN dissolved it with a flick of her wrist like she was swatting a fly. I kicked the door in—sometimes the Muggle way is faster—and disarmed him before he could reach for the necklace. 

There was a brief duel—a lot of purple sparks, a shattered vase, and one very angry enchanted rug that tried to smother me—but we had him bound and silenced within ten minutes. 

By the time the backup Aurors arrived to transport Thorne to the Ministry holding cells, the sun was starting to bleed gray light over the horizon. The rain had finally stopped. 

I stood on the front lawn of the cottage, muddy, tired, and smelling of ozone. YN was by the gate, talking to the lead Auror, handing over her notes. She looked exhausted, her hair even frizzier than before, a smudge of soot on her chin. 

She looked brilliant. 

She walked over to me as the Aurors popped away with Thorne. 

"Good work," she said, tucking her wand into her boot. 

"You too. That counter-curse on the rug? Inspired." 

"It was a standard Thread-Severing Charm, Ron. Hardly inspiring." 

"Well, it saved me from being suffocated by a Persian runner. So, I’m grateful." 

We stood there for a moment in the morning chill. The adrenaline was fading, leaving that heavy, pleasant weariness in its wake. 

"So," I said, scuffing my boot in the gravel. "Mission over." 

"Mission over," she agreed. "Back to London?" 

"Yeah. Back to London." 

I felt a strange pang of disappointment. The safe house was awful, the food was terrible, and the waiting was torture. But… 

"Hey," I said, before I could talk myself out of it. "Do you have any plans? Once we get back?" 

YN looked at me, tilting her head. "I have a grandfather clock in my workshop. 18th century. The pendulum is misaligned." 

"Sounds… intricate." 

"It is." 

"Need an assistant? I’m rubbish at mechanics, but I can make terrible toast." 

YN looked at me for a long beat. The sun finally broke through the clouds, hitting her eyes and turning them a warm amber. 

"I don't need an assistant," she said slowly. 

My stomach dropped a little. "Right. course. Solo project. I get it." 

"However," she continued, a small smile playing on her lips. "I do get hungry. And there’s a diner near my flat that makes actual edible food. If you’re interested." 

The static in my head cleared completely. 

"I’m very interested. I’m starving." 

"Good." She held out her arm. "Side-along? I’m too tired to navigate." 

I took her arm. "Lead the way." 

We turned on the spot, leaving the empty cottage and the quiet village behind. The "crack" of Disapparition echoed across the valley, not like a gunshot, but like a starting pistol. 

"Come on, then!" Ron shouted, his voice cracking slightly. "Stop posing and take the shot! Mum’s going to be calling for dinner in ten minutes." 

YN smirked, a quintessential Weasley expression that mirrored Fred and George’s mischief but with a sharper, more calculated edge. "Patience, Ronald. A good Chaser waits for the Keeper to blink." 

"I don't blink," Ron retorted, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the sun. "I’m a wall. I’m a fortress." 

"You’re a distinctive shade of beetroot," she observed dryly. 

Without warning, she dipped the nose of her broom. She accelerated with a speed that belied the age of her Comet 260. Ron tensed, gripping his broom handle, his eyes tracking her trajectory. She was coming in low, aiming for the left hoop. He knew this move; it was the Porskoff Ploy, or at least a backyard variation of it. She would feint upward and then drop the Quaffle through the lower hoop. 

Ron dove left, stretching his long arms out, ready to intercept. 

But YN didn't pull up. Instead, just as she came within scoring range, she let go of her broom handle with one hand and whipped her wand out from her robes. 

"Aguamenti!" 

A jet of icy cold water blasted Ron square in the face. 

The shock was total. Ron sputtered, blinded instantly by the high-pressure stream. His hands slipped on the slick wood of his broom, and he flailed, instinctively wiping at his eyes. In that split second of distraction, he felt the heavy thud of the Quaffle sailing past his ear and through the center hoop. 

"Score!" YN crowed, pulling out of her dive and doing a victory lap around the apple trees. 

Ron wiped the water from his eyes, his robes sodden and clinging to his chest. He glared at his sister, who was laughing as she descended toward the paddock grass. He slammed his broom into a steep dive and landed hard, his boots crunching on the dry earth. 

"Hey!" Ron yelled, marching over to where she was dismounting. "You can't do that!" 

YN looked at him, innocence painted all over her freckled face, though her eyes were dancing. "Do what? Score?" 

"You blasted me with water! That’s use of a wand against the Keeper! That’s a penalty!" 

"Technically," YN said, leaning against her broomstick and inspecting her fingernails, "standard Quidditch regulations state that wand use is prohibited on the crowd. It’s a grey area regarding the players if no hexes are used. I was just cooling you down. You looked hot." 

"It’s illegal and you know it!" Ron threw his broom onto the grass. The frustration that had been bubbling in his chest all summer—the fear about Harry, the worry about Hermione, the constant news of disappearances—suddenly found a target. "You always do this. You can't just win on skill, so you have to pull some trick." 

YN’s smile vanished. She stiffened, her chin lifting. "I have plenty of skill, Ron. Maybe you just weren't quick enough to dodge." 

"I'm the Keeper for the Gryffindor team," Ron snapped, his ears turning red. "I think I know what I'm doing. But you're not playing fair." 

The words hung in the hot air between them. 

YN looked at him, her expression hardening. She took a step closer, matching his height almost inch for inch. "Not playing fair? Is that what we’re worried about right now? Fairness?" 

"It’s a game, YNN. Rules exist for a reason." 

"Tell that to the Death Eaters," she said quietly. The shift in tone was jarring. The playfulness of the afternoon evaporated, replaced by the grim reality that had turned the Burrow into a fortress. "Do you think when they come for us, they’re going to worry about whether a hex is regulation? Do you think Bellatrix Lestrange is going to check the rulebook before she casts?" 

"That’s not the point!" Ron shouted, though he felt a cold knot form in his stomach. "We aren't fighting Death Eaters right now! We’re playing Quidditch in the paddock! It’s supposed to be... normal! It’s supposed to be the one thing that still makes sense!" 

He hadn't realized how much he needed that structure until he said it. Everything in his life was unraveling. Dumbledore was dead. The Ministry was compromised. He was preparing to leave his family to hunt down objects he barely understood. He just wanted one afternoon where the rules were clear: throw the ball, block the ball, win or lose based on merit. 

YN stared at him, her brown eyes searching his face. For a moment, Ron thought she might apologize. Instead, she shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. 

"Nothing is normal, Ron. Nothing has been normal for years. And you know what? I won. The Quaffle went through the hoop. In the real world, that’s all that matters." 

She turned on her heel and began marching back toward the house, her red hair blazing in the sunlight. 

"Where are you going?" Ron called out, feeling foolish standing there dripping wet. 

"To help Mum," she yelled back without turning around. "Someone has to make sure the potatoes are actually peeled and not just stared at." 

Ron stood alone in the paddock. The heat pressed down on him, drying the water on his face into tight, itchy patches. He kicked the Quaffle violently, sending it skittering into the tall weeds near the gnome holes. 

The dinner table that evening was a chaotic affair, as it always was at the Burrow, though the undercurrent of tension was palpable. Mr. Weasley was late home from the Ministry again. Mrs. Weasley was vibrating with anxious energy, piling second and third helpings onto Harry’s plate while shooting nervous glances at the family clock. 

Ron sat next to Harry, pushing peas around his plate. Across the table, YN was engaged in a hushed conversation with Ginny. They weren't looking at him, which somehow felt worse than if they were glaring. 

"You alright, mate?" Harry muttered, nudging Ron’s elbow. "You’ve been staring at that potato for five minutes. It’s not going to attack you." 

"Just thinking," Ron mumbled. "YN’s being a prat." 

Harry glanced across the table. "What happened? I saw you two flying earlier." 

"She cheated. Blasted me with Aguamenti to score." 

Harry snorted into his pumpkin juice, then quickly tried to cover it up as a cough when Mrs. Weasley looked over. "That’s... actually quite clever." 

Ron scowled at his best friend. "Whose side are you on?" 

"Yours, obviously. But you have to admit, it’s effective." 

"It’s not Quidditch," Ron muttered, stabbing a pea. "It’s chaos." 

After dinner, the house settled into a deceptive quiet. The ghoul in the attic banged on the pipes a few times, but otherwise, the Burrow breathed a sigh of relief as the night air cooled the wooden beams. 

Ron couldn't sleep. The stifling heat of his room, combined with the heavy thoughts of the upcoming wedding and the mission Dumbledore had left them, made the walls feel like they were closing in. He climbed out of bed, navigated the treacherous minefield of clutter on the landing, and crept down the winding stairs. 

He intended to get a glass of water, but when he reached the kitchen, he found the back door ajar. A sliver of moonlight cut across the flagstones. 

Stepping out into the garden, the air was sweet with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the damp earth. He saw a silhouette sitting on the low stone wall surrounding the vegetable patch. The glowing tip of a wand illuminated a small circle of grass. 

It was YN. She was floating small pebbles in the air, making them dance in intricate figure-eights. 

Ron hesitated. Part of him wanted to go back inside and avoid the confrontation. But the memory of the afternoon—the specific sting of her words about fairness—gnawed at him. He walked over, his footsteps crunching softly on the gravel. 

YN didn't look up. "I thought you were asleep." 

"Too hot," Ron said, leaning against the garden fence a few feet away. "What are you doing?" 

"Thinking," she said. She flicked her wand, and the pebbles stacked themselves into a precarious tower. "About what you said." 

Ron crossed his arms. "About you cheating?" 

YN sighed, finally looking up. The wandlight cast deep shadows under her eyes, making her look older than seventeen. "About fairness." 

She let the pebbles drop. They clattered onto the stone wall. 

"You’re right," she said softly. "It wasn't fair. It was a cheap shot." 

Ron blinked. He had expected a fight, not a concession. "Oh. Well. Yeah. It was." 

"But Ron," she continued, turning fully toward him, "I didn't do it just to win. I did it because... because I’m jealous of you." 

Ron let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You? Jealous of me? That’s rich. You’re the one who got the O in Charms. You’re the one Mum doesn't constantly worry about failing everything." 

"I'm the one who gets left behind," YN said, her voice trembling slightly. 

The silence that followed was heavier than the humid air. Ron uncrossed his arms. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Look at this family, Ron," she whispered, gesturing vaguely at the towering, crooked house behind them. "Bill has his curse-breaking and Fleur. Charlie has dragons. Percy... well, Percy has his ambition, even if he’s a git about it. The twins have the shop. Ginny is... she’s tough, and she’s got that fire." 

"And?" 

"And then there's us. The twins. Except we aren't really a unit, are we? Because you have Harry. You have Hermione. You have a destiny. Even if it’s not yours, you still participate in it." She looked down at her hands. "You’re going away, aren't you? After the wedding. You, Harry, and Hermione. You’re leaving." 

Ron stiffened. They hadn't told anyone the specifics, but he should have known YN would guess. She always saw more than she let on. "I... I can't talk about that." 

"You don't have to," she said. "I know. Everyone knows, even if they pretend they don't. You’re going off to save the world. And I’m just... here. I’m the other Weasley. The one who isn't a Prefect, isn't a Quidditch Captain, isn't the Chosen One's best friend. I’m just YN." 

Ron moved from the fence and sat on the wall next to her, leaving a careful distance between them. He looked at his sister—really looked at her—for the first time in months. He saw the same anxiety he felt, but without the outlet of a mission. He had a purpose, terrifying as it was. She just had the waiting. 

"It’s not glamorous, YNN," Ron said quietly. "Ideally, I’d like to stay here and eat Mum’s cooking and play Quidditch without worrying about getting killed. Being Harry’s friend... it’s not exactly a holiday." 

"I know that," she snapped, a flash of her earlier temper returning. "I’m not stupid. I know you’re terrified. But at least you matter. At least you’re doing something. You’re a part of something." 

She picked up a pebble and hurled it into the darkness of the garden. It hit a gnome, which squeaked indignantly. 

"That's why I played dirty today," she admitted, her voice dropping again. "Because when we’re up in the air... I needed to feel like I could beat you. Like I could be better than 'Ron Weasley’s twin sister,’ or whatever everybody else decides to call me on whatever day. I needed to win, just once, on my own terms. Even if I had to break the rules to do it." 

Ron looked at his knees. He picked at a loose thread on his pajama bottoms. He understood that feeling. He had spent his entire life feeling like the "least" Weasley. The one with the hand-me-down robes, the hand-me-down rat, the hand-me-down expectations. He knew exactly what it felt like to want to prove you were more than just a background character in someone else's story. 

"You are better than me," Ron said. 

YN looked at him sharply. "Don't patronize me." 

"I'm not," Ron said, and he meant it. "You’re better at Charms. You’re better at talking to people—you actually understand what Mum means when she gives that 'look', whereas I just panic. And honestly? You’re probably a better Flyer, technical fouls aside." 

He took a breath. "I’m not special, YNN. I’m just... loyal. That’s all I’ve got. I stick around. That’s my whole thing." 

"That’s a big thing," she said. "Sticking around when things get dark. Most people run." 

"You wouldn't run." 

"I don't know," she admitted. "I haven't been tested. Not like you." 

Ron looked up at the moon. It was nearly full. "You will be. The way things are going... everyone’s going to be tested. That’s why the fairness thing... that’s why it bothered me." 

"Why?" 

"Because I want to believe that if we play by the rules, we’ll be okay," Ron admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I want to believe that if we’re the 'good guys', we win. If I start thinking that the rules don't matter... then it’s just us and them, and they’re a lot stronger than us." 

YN shifted on the wall, closing the distance between them. She leaned her shoulder against his. It was a gesture they hadn't shared since they were children, huddled under blankets during thunderstorms. 

"The rules matter because we make them matter," she said. "Not because the universe cares. You were right to be mad. We have to be better than them. Otherwise, what’s the point?" 

Ron chuckled dryly. "So, no more Aguamenti on the pitch?" 

"I make no promises," she grinned, though it was a tired smile. "But I’ll try to restrict my wand usage to de-gnoming." 

They sat in silence for a long while, the sounds of the garden filling the space between them. The crickets chirped, the wind rustled the high hedges that hid the Burrow from the world, and somewhere in the distance, a nightjar called. 

"YNN?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I’m scared," Ron said. He had never said it out loud to Harry or Hermione. He couldn't. He had to be the rock for them. But here, in the dark, with the person who had shared a womb with him, the armor cracked. 

YN reached out and took his hand. Her grip was firm, calloused from broom handles and garden work. "Me too." 

"If... if I don't come back—" 

"Shut up," she said, squeezing his hand hard enough to hurt. "Don't you dare finish that sentence, Ronald Bilius Weasley." 

"I’m just saying—" 

"You’re coming back," she said fiercely. "You have to. Who else am I going to torment? Ginny is too quick, and the twins just gang up on me. I need you." 

Ron squeezed her hand back. "Okay. I’ll come back." 

"Good." She let go of his hand and stood up, brushing off her pajama bottoms. "Now, are you going to help me sneak into the pantry? I know Mum hid a batch of cauldron cakes behind the flour tin, and I’m starving." 

Ron grinned, the heavy weight in his chest lifting just a fraction. "She hid them behind the pickled onions, actually. Rookie mistake thinking she’d put them near the flour." 

YN laughed, a genuine, bright sound that cut through the gloom. "See? You do have a talent. You’re a divining rod for snacks." 

"It’s a gift," Ron said, standing up and following her toward the kitchen door. 

As they reached the threshold, YN paused, her hand on the latch. She looked back at him, her expression serious one last time. 

"Ron?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Next time we play," she said, her eyes glinting in the moonlight, "I’m going to beat you fair and square. Just so there’s no doubt." 

Ron smiled, feeling a surge of warmth that had nothing to do with the summer heat. "In your dreams, YNN. In your dreams." 

They slipped inside the Burrow, the door clicking shut behind them, leaving the darkness and the war outside, if only for tonight. 

The following afternoon, the heat had broken slightly, replaced by a gusty wind that rattled the windowpanes. The atmosphere in the Burrow was frenetic; Fleur Delacour had arrived early for wedding preparations, and the house was filled with her strong perfume and Mrs. Weasley’s frantic cleaning spells. 

Ron found himself in the orchard again, escaping the dusting of the sitting room. He had his broom in hand. 

"Fancy a rematch?" 

He turned to see YN leaning against the trunk of a gnarled apple tree. She was wearing her old Quidditch robes, her hair tied back in a severe ponytail. 

"I thought you were helping Mum with the curtains," Ron said. 

"I was exiled," she shrugged. "Apparently, my opinion that 'dust is just historical air' was not appreciated." 

Ron snorted. "Imagine that." 

He mounted his broom and kicked off, hovering a few feet above the grass. YN followed suit, rising to meet him. The wind buffeted them, tugging at their robes. 

"Alright," Ron said, tossing the Quaffle to her. "No wands. No hexes. No blinding the Keeper with reflections from your watch." 

"Agreed," YN said, tucking the ball under her arm. "Straight game. First to ten?" 

"You're on." 

They flew. 

It was different this time. The anger was gone, replaced by a fierce, rhythmic concentration. They moved in sync, a dance learned over seventeen years of shared space and shared blood. 

YN was fast. She wove through the apple trees, using the branches as natural obstacles, banking hard and accelerating toward the hoops. She didn't use tricks; she used pure agility, feinting right with her body before throwing left. 

Ron was ready. He didn't just react; he anticipated. He knew how she flew. He knew that when she bit her lip, she was going to go high. He knew that when she leaned forward, she was looking for speed, not precision. 

He saved her first shot, a fingertip deflection that sent the Quaffle spinning away. He saved the second, blocking it with the tail of his broom. 

But she kept coming. She scored the third, a beautiful, curving throw that completely bypassed his reach. 

"One-nil!" she shouted, but there was no mockery in it, only the thrill of the sport. 

"Lucky shot!" Ron called back, grinning. 

They played for an hour, sweating, shouting, pushing each other to the limit. There were no shortcuts. No unfair advantages. Just two siblings, suspended between the earth and the sky, speaking the only language that made total sense to them. 

As the sun began to dip, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange, the score was tied nine-nine. 

"Next goal wins!" YN yelled, her chest heaving. She had the Quaffle. 

She circled wide, near the hedge that bordered the Diggory’s land. She turned and gunned it, flying straight at him. It was a game of chicken. She was betting he would flinch. 

Ron gritted his teeth. I’m a wall, he thought. I’m a fortress. 

She hurtled toward him. At the last second, she threw. It was a hammer blow, straight and hard toward the center hoop. 

Ron lunged. He took his hand off the broom, stretching every sinew. His fingers brushed the leather. 

It wasn't enough to stop it, but it was enough to alter the course. The Quaffle hit the rim of the bicycle wheel with a loud clang and bounced harmlessly away. 

"Save!" Ron roared, punching the air. 

YN pulled up, hovering next to him. She was panting, her face flushed, strands of hair escaping her ponytail. She looked at the hoop, then at the Quaffle lying in the grass, and finally at Ron. 

She smiled, a wide, genuine grin that reached her eyes. 

"Okay," she said, wiping her forehead. "That was a good save." 

"Better than good," Ron said, feeling a surge of pride. "That was professional standard." 

"Don't push it," she laughed. 

They descended together, landing softly on the paddock grass. As they walked back toward the house, their shoulders bumped. 

"Ron?" 

"Yeah?" 

"You really aren't playing fair, you know," she said lightly. 

Ron looked at her, confused. "What? I didn't touch my wand! That was a clean save!" 

"I know," YN said, looking at the Burrow, where the lights were glowing warm and inviting in the dusk. "You're getting better. That forces me to try harder. It’s immensely inconvenient." 

Ron laughed, swinging his broom over his shoulder. "Life’s tough, YNN." 

"Yeah," she said softly, her hand brushing against his arm. "It is. But we’re tougher." 

They reached the back door. Inside, they could hear the clatter of plates and Mrs. Weasley’s voice calling them to wash up. The war was coming. The darkness was gathering. The rules of the world were breaking down one by one. 

The kitchen was empty, bathed in the pale, silver light of the moon filtering through the scrubbed windows. The clock on the wall ticked heavily. Ron. Ginny. Fred. George. Percy. Bill. Charlie. YN. All hands pointed to 'Mortal Peril.' 

Ron paused, his eyes lingering on the name wedged between the Twins and himself. 

YN. 

His sister. The anomaly. The Weasley who didn’t fit the mold. 

He glanced out the kitchen window toward the orchard. A flicker of light, abrupt and unnatural, pulsed near the gnarled trunk of the apple trees. It wasn't the soft glow of a gnome, nor the erratic flash of a firefly. It was wand light. 

Frowning, Ron grabbed his wand from the table and unlatched the back door. The night air was cooler, carrying the scent of dry grass and de-gnoming spray. He moved through the high grass, the hem of his pajama bottoms dampening with dew. 

As he drew closer to the orchard, he heard it—a sharp intake of breath, followed by a muttered incantation that sounded wet, as if spoken through tears. 

Ron stepped around the trunk of a massive oak. "Who's there?" 

The figure seated on the overturned crate jumped, wand snapping up defensively. A jet of red sparks fizzled into the darkness, illuminating a face that was undeniably Weasley, yet strikingly different. 

YN lowered her wand, her chest heaving. She was seventeen, just a year older than Ron, possessing the trademark flaming hair, though hers was currently pulled back in a severe, messy knot. But where the rest of them were freckled and open, YN was pale and guarded. 

And she was wearing green. An oversized, emerald jumper that clashed violently with her hair. 

"Bloody hell, YNN," Ron breathed, lowering his own wand. "You nearly hexed my nose off." 

"You shouldn't sneak up on people, Ronald," she snapped, though her voice lacked its usual biting edge. She wiped her eyes aggressively with her sleeve. "It’s 2:00 AM. Go to bed." 

Ron didn't move. He looked at the ground around her. scattered in the grass were shards of black stone and a small, smoldering fire contained in an old plant pot. The smell of burning parchment hung heavy in the air. 

"What are you doing?" Ron asked, stepping closer. 

"Nothing. Go away." 

"You're crying." 

"I am not crying. I’m allergic to the… the pollen." 

"In the middle of the night? In July?" Ron scoffed, finally sitting down on the grass a few feet away from her. He winced as a twig dug into his thigh. "Is it Percy? Did he write again?" 

The mention of their estranged brother made YN flinch. Being the two middle children—sandwiched between the chaotic brilliance of the Twins and the distinctiveness of Ginny—Ron and YN had always shared a strange, silent orbit. But YN had it harder. When the Sorting Hat had placed a Weasley into Slytherin for the first time in generations, the silence at the family table had been deafening. 

"It’s not Percy," YN muttered, staring into the dying embers in the plant pot. 

"Then what?" Ron pressed. He felt a surge of protectiveness. Despite their House rivalry, despite the snide comments she made about his grades and his friends, she was his sister. And she looked small. Smaller than he had ever seen her. 

YN picked up a twig and poked the ashes. "Do you ever feel like… like you’re waiting for the floor to drop out?" 

Ron snorted softly. "I’m best mates with Harry Potter, YNN. The floor doesn't just drop out; it usually explodes, catches fire, and tries to eat you." 

A small, watery smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Fair point." 

"So, what's the fire for?" Ron gestured to the pot. 

YN hesitated. She reached into the pocket of her emerald jumper and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment. It was thick, expensive vellum—the kind the Malfoys or the Blacks used. Not the rough scrap parchment the Weasleys bought in bulk. 

"I’ve been writing to someone," she whispered. 

Ron’s eyebrows shot up. "A boy?" 

"A friend. From school." 

"A Slytherin?" Ron asked, his tone dropping. The suspicion was automatic, ingrained in him by years of Gryffindor conditioning. 

"Yes, a Slytherin," she shot back defensively, her eyes flashing. "Because, believe it or not, Ron, not all of them spend their weekends plotting world domination. Some of them are just… people. People scared out of their minds." 

Ron held up his hands in surrender. "Okay. Okay. I’m listening." 

YN sighed, the fight draining out of her. She smoothed the parchment on her knee. "It’s Adrian. Adrian Pucey." 

"The Chaser?" Ron recalled the name. "Big bloke? Looks like he could wrestle a troll?" 

"That's him." Her voice softened. "We’ve… we’ve been close since fourth year. He’s not like Malfoy. He likes Herbology. He thinks blood purity is rubbish, mostly because his grandfather married a Muggle-born. But..." 

She trailed off, her fingers trembling over the letter. 

"But?" 

"But his father doesn't think it's rubbish," YN said, her voice cracking. "His father is one of them. Or he wants to be. He’s trying to impress You-Know-Who." 

Ron felt a cold shiver that had nothing to do with the night air. The war was no longer a distant headline; it was seeping into the soil of their lives. 

"Adrian wrote to me tonight," YN continued, her voice barely a whisper. "He said he can’t return to Hogwarts this year. His father is pulling him out. He said… he said it’s not safe for him to be seen associating with a 'Blood Traitor' like me anymore. He said if he keeps writing to me, his father might..." She couldn't finish the sentence. 

Ron stared at the crumpled letter. He imagined the heavy hand of a father forcing a son to choose between his heart and his survival. He thought of his own father, Arthur Weasley, who collected plugs and loved Muggles, and felt a surge of fierce, burning gratitude. 

"He broke it off," YN said, tossing the letter into the plant pot. She raised her wand. "Incendio." 

The parchment curled, blackening at the edges before bursting into a small orange flame. They watched the words—Please understand, I’m sorry, YN—turn to ash. 

"I’m sorry, YNN," Ron said quietly. And he meant it. He stripped away the House rivalries, the prejudices, the suspicions. He just saw his sister, heartbroken and terrified. 

"I feel like a coward," she admitted, hugging her knees to her chest. "I’m sitting here, safe at the Burrow, protected by Dumbledore and Mum and Dad. And he’s out there, stuck in a manor house with monsters, and I can’t do a single thing to help him. I’m a Weasley in Slytherin, Ron. I don’t belong here because I’m a Snake, and I don’t belong there because I’m a blood traitor. I’m nowhere." 

The confession hung in the air, heavy and raw. 

Ron picked at a blade of grass, shredding it between his thumbnails. He knew that feeling. The feeling of being 'nowhere.' 

"You’re not a coward," Ron said. 

"How would you know? You’re a Gryffindor. You charge into danger without thinking. It’s in your DNA." 

"Is it?" Ron asked, his voice unusually bitter. 

YN looked at him, surprised by the tone. "What do you mean?" 

Ron took a deep breath. He had never said this out loud. Not to Harry, certainly not to Hermione. But here, in the dark, with the sister who felt like an outcast, it felt safe. 

"I’m terrified," Ron confessed. "All the time. Every single day." 

YN turned her body fully toward him. "You? Ron Weasley? You went to the Department of Mysteries. You faced You-Know-Who in your first year. Or just about did anyway." 

"I followed Harry," Ron corrected. "That’s what I do. I follow. Harry charges in because he has to. Hermione charges in because she knows the things needed to fix it. I just… go. Because if I don’t, I’m the guy who let his best friend die." 

He looked up at the moon, his face pale. "This summer… with the news getting worse… I wake up sweating. I have this dream where we’re in a duel. Death Eaters are everywhere. Harry is fighting. Hermione is fighting. And I freeze. I can’t move my arms. I can’t remember a single hex. I just stand there and watch them fall." 

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I’m trying out for Keeper this year." 

"I know," YN said softly. "I saw you practicing with apples." 

"I’m rubbish, YNN. I’m absolutely rubbish. And it’s not just Quidditch. It’s everything. I feel like… like I’m a spare part. If you take Harry out of the equation, the world ends. If you take Hermione out, Harry dies in a week. If you take me out..." He shrugged one shoulder. "The story probably goes on just fine." 

YN stared at him for a long time. The fire in the pot had died down to a faint glow, casting long, dancing shadows across their faces. 

"You’re an idiot," she said finally. 

Ron let out a dry laugh. "Thanks. Really helping the self-esteem there." 

"No, I mean it. You’re an idiot if you think that." She shifted, leaning closer to him. "Do you know why I hated my first year in Slytherin?" 

"Because most of them are gits?" 

"Well, yes. But also because everyone expected me to be like the Twins. Loud. Pranksters. Or like Percy. Rigid. Ambitious. But I was just… quiet. I watched people. And do you know what I see when I watch you, Ron?" 

Ron shook his head, looking down at his hands. 

"I see the glue," she said. 

Ron frowned. "The glue?" 

"Harry is the hero. Fine. He’s the sword. Hermione is the brain. She’s the shield. But you? You’re the heart, Ron. You’re the thing that holds them together. Without you, Harry loses his mind to the pressure. Without you, Hermione forgets that people matter more than books. You ground them. You make them human." 

She reached out and poked him hard in the shoulder. "And as for the fear? That doesn’t make you a coward. That makes you smart. Only a lunatic wouldn’t be scared right now. The Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor not because you’re fearless, but because you act despite the fear." 

Ron absorbed her words. They sat comfortably in his chest, warmer than the summer air. It was strange, hearing this from YN. They rarely spoke more than three sentences to each other over breakfast. 

"You really think that?" he asked. 

"I’m a Ravenclaw-leaning Slytherin, Ron. I analyze everything. I don’t say things I don’t mean." 

Ron managed a genuine smile. "Thanks, YNN." 

He looked back at the pot of ashes. "And about Pucey..." 

YN stiffened again. 

"He’s protecting you," Ron said firmly. "If his dad is really… one of them… then cutting you off is the bravest thing he could do. He’s making sure you aren't a target." 

YN’s eyes welled up again, but this time she didn't wipe the tears away. "I just miss him. It feels like the war is taking everything before it’s even really started." 

"I know," Ron said. He thought of Hermione, of the awkward tension between them, of the fear that he might never actually tell her how he felt before the world burned down. "I really know." 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly squashed Chocolate Frog. He’d been saving it for a bout of anxiety, but this felt like a better cause. He handed it to her. 

"Here. It’s a bit melted, but chocolate helps. Lupin said so." 

YN took the frog, a small laugh escaping her lips. "You’re carrying chocolate in your pajamas?" 

"Always prepared," Ron grinned. 

She unwrapped it, breaking off a leg and handing the rest back to him. They sat in silence, chewing the chocolate, watching the gnomes chase each other through the tall grass. The heavy dread that had driven Ron out of his room had lifted, replaced by a quiet solidarity. 

"YNN?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Don't tell Fred and George I’m scared of Quidditch. They’ll never let me live it down. They’ll enchant the Quaffle to scream every time I miss." 

YN smirked, the shadow in her eyes lifting slightly. "Only if you don’t tell Mum I was dating a Slytherin. She’d probably send a Howler to the Pucey manor, and then I’d really be dead." 

Ron chuckled. The image of Molly Weasley screeching at a Death Eater’s manor was both terrifying and hilarious. 

"Deal," Ron said. 

YN dusted the chocolate crumbs off her emerald jumper. She looked at the pot of ashes one last time, then vanished the mess with a flick of her wand. She stood up and offered a hand to Ron. 

He took it, letting her pull him up. 

"You know," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper as they walked back toward the dark, crooked silhouette of the Burrow. "If you want... I could help you. With the Keeper thing." 

Ron looked at her in surprise. "You played Beater for Slytherin in third year, didn't you?" 

"Briefly. Until I took a Bludger to the ribs. But I know the drills. And I know how to spot a weak side." She nudged him. "And I promise not to laugh when you fall off." 

"You're on," Ron said, feeling a spark of actual hope for the tryouts. 

They reached the back door. The kitchen was still silent, the clock still ticking. Mortal Peril. It hadn't changed. The danger was still there. The war was still coming. Adrian Pucey was still lost to the dark, and Harry Potter was still a marked man. 

But as Ron looked at YN, he realized the hands on the clock missed something important. They showed where the Weasleys were, but not who they were together. 

"Hey, Ron?" YN whispered as she put her hand on the latch. 

"Yeah?" 

She looked him in the eye, the moonlight catching the fierce intelligence in her gaze. 

"Your secret's safe with me." 

Ron nodded, a solemn, silent vow passing between them. "And yours with me."