A/N: Credit goes to babewithbrainsxx/Soraya and Royari/Ari for their wonderful feedback as betas. Their feedback really helped to polish this story. :)

This story won second place in the Major Characters round of Madam Pomfrey's Character Triathlon.

---

If I walk down this hallway tonight, it's too quiet
So I pad through the dark and call you on the phone.
Push your old numbers and let your house ring
Until I wake your ghost.

~Greg Laswell, "Your Ghost"

~.~.~

Though his face was wrapped up snugly, protected against the biting wind, each exhale added a fresh layer of frost to the royal blue wool muffler that covered his face up to his eyes. Too much more of this wetness and it would be ruined.

Ron Weasley ducked into the nearest alcove on Diagon Alley, hoping to wait out the worst of the wind before braving the cold (and possible ruination of his muffler) again. As he shoved the wool under his chin for safekeeping against the frost, he looked into the brightly lit storefront. Since he needed to stop, he might as well check for presents for the grandkids, since Rose had been so adamant about having Christmas dinner at the house.

"I dunno if I'll make it to Christmas this year," Ron murmured, flames licking the sensitive skin around his shirt collar with a heat that was nearly uncomfortable.

Rose rolled her eyes. "All right, Dad, what's the excuse this year? Two years running, you've booked your Mungo's appointments for the same time and claimed that it was an accident. I simply cannot believe old age has made you that forgetful. Even Mum used to--"

"Don't, Rosie," he said tiredly. "Don't bring her up to win an argument."

"I'm not!" Rose said heatedly. Gauging her father's expression, she changed tactics. "Dad, I know you miss Mum, and so do I. Christmases aren't the same without her. Last year, Dominique, Victoire and I all made entrees, and we had no desserts, for Merlin's sake!" The attempt at humor fell flat for Ron. Nine years wasn't enough time to joke about Hermione, not even about her obsessive organizing.

"But you've got to come back sometime," continued his daughter firmly. "The rest of the family is still here and we miss you. We didn't lose both you and her at the same time, so there's no reason that it should feel that way."

He blinked rapidly, knowing Rose would notice his tears but hoping she would let it go. "We can talk more about this later," he placated. "I've been in this fire for too long; the flames are nearly blinding me."

Rose stared at him without speaking for a moment, her eyes flashing. Now, that look, Ron thought admiringly, came straight down the ancestral line from her grandmum--a Weasley through and through. He stifled a proud smile, knowing his daughter intended her look to intimidate, not impress.

"No, Dad, we don't need to talk about this anymore," she declared. "It's settled. We'll have Christmas dinner at your house. You won't have the inconvenience of traveling late at night--" Ron opened his mouth to proclaim the many conveniences of Apparition, but Rose barreled through without pause. "And you won't have a choice in attending," she added lightly.

Ron shook his head haplessly. Rose had inherited her mother's tenacity and her father's lack of tact; she was truly threatening when she wanted to be. "Looks like I don't have a choice in the matter," he observed.

"That's right," she said, chipper, looking completely unrepentant. "See you next Friday at eight, then! I'll bring the food, of course, but make sure you put up a tree and all the decorations; Mum stored them in the attic somewhere. The kids will want to see the house in full Christmas cheer in honor of the occasion!"

"And by kids, you mean yourself," Ron grumbled.

"Perhaps. You know me, Dad; I'm a young soul at heart." Rose chuckled. "Now, get out of the fire before your ears get any redder around the tips."

"Hey--"

"Bye, Dad!" With that quick ending, the Floo connection ended. Ron sat back on his heels, wondering at the course of the brief conversation.

Christmas dinner at their house for the first time in nearly a decade--Rose Weasley was truly her mother's daughter when it came to getting what she wanted accomplished.

Ron tugged on the ends of his muffler, fingering the soft wool. The first Christmas after his mother had died, Hermione had knitted items for the entire family in memory of her. But her clever Charm-work had put the end to the Weasley-themed sweater sets. Instead, Charlie got flame retardant woolen gloves--"for when it's cold outside, you know leather does no good whatsoever," she had told him firmly--and George had got a pair of earmuffs... and he had got this.

He shut his eyes. Behind the golden haze of his shut eyelids, he could still feel the brushes of her fingers against his jawline as she wrapped the muffler around his neck, the feather-light kiss she placed on his cheek as his children howled in embarrassment, and her warm whisper, "The blue suits your eyes."

If he could have that moment back, he wouldn't let her get away with a kiss on the cheek. He would catch her up in his arms, pull her close, breathe her scent in, bury his nose in her hair -- someone else would take care of setting the table. He would have stayed with her.

Ron bit his lip, pressing down until he finally felt a sharp pain bite into his numb skin, trying to collect himself. He focused again on the glass window in front of him and immediately recognized the worn tags with messily scrawled handwritten prices. A pawn shop was no place to buy Christmas presents.

Noticing the wind had calmed, he walked back onto the street. If he was quick, he'd have time to stop by Eeylop's Owl Emporium--little Gary, Rose's youngest, wanted nothing more than a pet to take with him for his first year at Hogwarts next year, and she was thinking of getting him a rat. Ron simply couldn't allow that, not after the way Scabbers had turned out.

The glimmer of silver in the pawn shop window caught his eye, and he turned towards it before he could stop himself. He stared at the small lighter--it looked handmade, probably some type of family heirloom before some poor bastard fell on hard times, and yet it looked oddly familiar.

Suddenly, the realization struck. It's a Deluminator. The one Dumbledore had given him nearly 70 years ago had broken at Hugo's Hogwarts leaving ceremony. Hermione had reckoned it was a personal invention of Dumbledore's, irreplaceable, and had even boxed away the fragments of it somewhere in the house in the hope that someday, some repair shop might know how to fix it. But here was another one, right in front of him, and he couldn't help but remember the reason the Deluminator had first made an appearance in his life.

Ron sat in the window seat, legs drawn up to his chin, his shoulder pressed against the cold glass. Even the ocean waves, which had done so much to calm him these past few weeks, couldn't lull him to sleep tonight.

A few hours ago, Christmas Day had started. He stared out into the night sky, looking at the twinkling stars, his mind a million miles away from where he sat. Harry and Hermione were out there somewhere under this same sky. They were sleeping on the cold, hard ground of some remote forest, exhausted and frustrated but doing their duty as they should be, as Bill and Fleur were, fighting against Voldemort.

Disloyal. Stupid. Cowardly. Ron clenched his hands into fists, pressing them into his eye sockets until the punishing pressure ached.

He should be there with them, not here in Shell Cottage. Bill and Fleur had done their best to be welcoming, had treated him with more respect than he deserved. But this wasn't where he was supposed to be. He belonged with his best friends.

And you left them, didn't you? Walked out without a backward glance, said the accusing voice in his head. You're only getting what you deserve.

He got up from his seat by the window with a jerk, turning towards his bedside table and switching on the radio. There was no use--they could be anywhere, and he had no hope of finding them... He had lost them, maybe even for good. Who could forgive a friend for walking out in the middle of a war? Maybe the music would help him sleep.

Lying back on his bed, he shut his eyes resolutely as the warbling of some unknown singer rang softly in the silence, reminding him of the way Hermione would hum Muggle songs as she cast the concealment spells around their tent.

"Ron..."

Ron immediately grabbed his wand from underneath his pillow--some habits from living in hiding didn't fade away so quickly--and sprang upright, gazing suspiciously into the dark corners of his bedroom. Who would say his name so late at night? He turned on the lights of his room, but nothing and no one was revealed in the shadows.

"Wand..."

Quickly, he scrabbled inside his pocket to grab the source of the sound, pulling it out of his pocket to stare at the Deluminator that Dumbledore had given him--Why would it say his name? He clicked it and cursed as the lights of his room went out, once more leaving him in the dark.

But then a blue glowing orb appeared outside of his window. Ron stared, waiting for something to happen. Had Dumbledore left behind an image or message for him to find, a clue that would assist Harry in his hunt for Horcruxes?

Nothing happened. Instead the blue orb hovered outside the glass, moving back and forth. Its circling reminded Ron of Pidwidgeon, the way the owl would move when he was about to take flight with a message in his claws.

That's it, Ron realized. This is the way for me to get back to Harry and Hermione--the light's going to take me to them.

Quickly, he gathered his clothes, stuffing them back into his bag, and jotted a brief note to Bill and Fleur to let them know why he had disappeared. Then, without a backward glance, he opened the window and slipped outside to follow the light back to his best friends.

Ron smiled at the silvery object glittering in the shop's display. The light always carried him home. Hermione had joked about it years later, after they bought a beautiful pair of calling mirrors to speak to each other when Hermione had to liaise with foreign Ministries. The mirrors had been activated by setting a candle's flame in the mirror's reflection and saying a password. (Theirs had been 'spew,' since Ron felt like Hermione deserved to be teased a bit, too.)

But jokes aside, she had been right--for him, home had never been inside the house that they had built together, but rather, wherever his loved ones were. At first, home had been with his best friends Harry and Hermione and, later, with his wife and children. The Deluminator had showed him that, even though it took him a few years to realize the implicit lesson within his experience of finding Harry and Hermione again.

It was strange to think that it could not lead him back to them now. He had never expected to be the last one left. The Healers at St. Mungo's had a good reason for it: Voldemort's Avada Kedavra had led to premature aging in Harry's case, his lifespan similar to that of a Muggle, and Dolohov's slicing spell had weakened Hermione's heart. But Ron wasn't a medical man, and to him, the idea that their friendship--Hermione's love--wouldn't pull his heart along with theirs to the "next adventure," as Harry used to call it, seemed unreasonable. It wasn't that he felt left behind. He had long grown past his teenage insecurities; wherever Harry and Hermione were, he was sure that they would be waiting for him when his time came. But his confidence in the future did not change the fact that, for now, he felt--was--alone.

He looked again into the store window. To his hopeful eyes, the shining silver, glittering under the display lights, held a hint of hope. Dumbledore always had a surprise up his sleeve when you could see that damn twinkle in his eyes, and Hermione did always say the light would carry me home... When have either of them ever led me down the wrong path?

The thought was crazy, he knew, but Ron hadn't made it through nearly 90 years in the magical world or survived the war without believing in the impossible and trusting his loved ones. It was worth a shot, and the owls weren't going anywhere; the Emporium could wait.

With that, Ron hurried into the pawn shop to inquire with the shopkeeper.

~.~.~

An assortment of redheads of all ages had gathered in clumps around the Granger-Weasley sitting room, trading stories of the past year. With the loss of Molly and Arthur nearly twenty years ago, the Weasley clan didn't get together as often as they used to, the sheer volume of family members too large for any house other than the Burrow (at least without a few strategically placed Enlargement Charms, which Ron had made judicious use of tonight).

The house looked better than it had in years, with a towering Christmas tree covered in tinsel standing majestically in the foyer to welcome guests, per Rose's demand, and children's voices filling the house with raucous shouts and laughter. Faerie lights twinkled along the ceiling, looking nearly as bright as the stars that shone outside in the dark winter sky.

"Hey Dad," Hugo called from the sitting room, "the fire's glowing green! Must be Rose!"

Ron tapped the oven door with his foot until it was shut. "Coming," he shouted. "Kids, dessert's ready!"

A large pan of Dominique's famous crème brûlée in hand, he carefully navigated through the sitting room towards the fireplace, which was glowing green, avoiding the children sprawled on the floor and adults chattering with drinks in their hands.

After placing the pan down on the coffee table, he removed his oven mitts and looked at the children gathered around him. "Now, don't touch the pan; it's hot," he admonished sternly.

"Yes, Grandpa," said Angie, Hugo's youngest, with a charming smile.

"Oh no, you don't, missie," he said, laughing. "That smile isn't going to get you anywhere. Hugo!" His son turned his head in acknowledgement. "Come and watch this pan until it cools down, or else your daughter's Christmas present will be a burnt tongue!"

Hugo came over to join him at the sofa over a chorus of groans from the children. Ron noticed the fire was now flashing angrily and hurried over to stick his head in the flames.

"Rose?"

"What took you so long?" Rose snapped. "Never mind; it doesn’t matter," she continued without pause, sounding frazzled. "I'm so sorry we're late. I promise we'll be there in an hour. Scorpius's meeting ran late, so I'm in charge of giving Gary a bath, and that means I can't change until after he gets out of the tub. You know how he splashes..."

Ron nodded patiently. "Rose, breathe. Get here when you get here; I can manage this lot."

She looked at him plaintively. "Sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to dump a whole mess onto your lap on Christmas. Did everyone at least like the entrees I cooked? I should have taken care of all of this; I know Mum would have..." Her eyes sparkled with tears.

"Don't worry, Rosie," Ron said gruffly, wanting to reach out and ruffle his daughter's hair like he used to. "They loved your food, of course; you're ten times better than your mother was in the kitchen, thank Merlin. And the bustle is fine with me--I'm staying busy instead of moping around. A bit of change is good for an old man's health."

There was a scream in the background and Rose's head whipped around. "Gary! How many times have I told you--" She faced Ron for a second. "Dad, I have to go, Gary's gone and stuck his finger to the table again. His magic is getting out of control; I can't wait for him to go to Hogwarts..."

Ron chuckled. "Takes after me, you know. Except you're lucky--your grandmum had to deal with me sticking my food to the ceiling when I didn’t like it. Merlin help her when she made me a corned beef sandwich. Go! But don't be late for unwrapping presents; you know how tetchy Victoire gets if people don't appreciate her gifts enough."

"We'll be there!" With that, the connection snapped shut.

Ron pulled his head out of the fire and stood up, meeting Victoire's critical gaze. "You've ruined your collar with all the soot from the fireplace, Uncle Ron," she commented.

He flushed. "Right. Clumsy as always... I'll go and change." She nodded firmly in approval before he turned to make his way toward his bedroom.

Quickly slipping into a clean set of dress robes, he turned to assess himself in the vanity mirror. As he was combing his thinning hair with his fingers--there was no hiding the balding at this stage, but he could at least smooth everything down a bit--a waving figure in the bottom corner of the mirror caught his eye, and he looked down.

He gazed at the photograph of him and Hermione pensively. It had been taken just before she died. His younger self had more hair, his eyes hadn't looked as tired... maybe that was because of the giant grin stretching across his face. It was funny how much difference nine years could make.

Each time he looked at that picture, he couldn't fight off the sense of surprise that time had passed since then, that the world hadn't frozen in grief when Hermione died. One day she had been there, holding his hand as he sat next to her bed at St. Mungo's, the next day she hadn't, and the birds chirped all the same outside their bedroom window each morning. Even he had kept moving--the stiffness in his knees and the new crease between his eyebrows were a testament to that. Life was funny that way, he thought, always moving people forward, whether they liked it or not.

"Grandpa, Gary's here! It's present time!" came Angie's excited voice through the doorway. Ron snapped out of his thoughts and gave the front of his robes a final tug, hoping everything was in order and would live up to Victoire's strict expectations.

"No rest for the wicked," he murmured to himself wryly, before hurrying out of the bedroom.

~.~.~

Ron gazed around the quiet sitting room from his place on the settee. Children lay on the floor or draped across their parents' laps in various states of repose. The youngest were fast asleep, and even the older ones had to pinch each other to keep their eyelids from drooping. The adults were settled on various surfaces, from dining room chairs to sofas, their earlier chatter having faded to quiet murmurs.

He couldn't help but feel a little disconnected from the scene in front of him. Nostalgia swirled in the bottom of his cup along with the dregs of Teddy's very potent eggnog. His children were grown; some of his grandchildren were now on the cusp of adulthood themselves...

Seized by a sense of maudlin, he dwelled on his place in this gathering. Ginny was out of the country at some Quidditch gathering in the south of France; of his five brothers, he was the last one still living, and Harry and Hermione were both gone now... He was the only person of his generation present today, the only one who could remember the Second War and all of its horrors, the memories of which made the joys of this peaceful Christmas Day a touch bittersweet.

Rose sat down beside him with a sigh. "Hullo, Dad," she murmured, leaning back and tucking her head onto his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her and squeezed lightly.

"Hullo, Rosie."

"You did a wonderful job with tonight," she said, gesturing out across the sitting room with a hand. "Better than I've done, even. Mum would have been proud."

Ron chuckled. "Don't be sweet with me, Rosie. You know as well as I do that your mum would have been appalled that Gary ate three servings of Dominique's crème brûlée before we caught him."

She giggled. "Shush. That's my failing, not yours. Granddads are supposed to spoil their grandkids, or else what good are they for?"

Ron poked his daughter in the ribs. "I imagine they're pretty good at reminding their children who's in charge," he growled.

Rose threw her arms around her father and hugged him hard. "Your bark's worse than your bite, Dad, you can't fool me."

Ron stroked her soft, auburn hair with a hand fondly. "As sharp as your mother, you are." He sighed, shutting his eyes, remembering his wife's wild, unmanageable mass of hair. It had nearly strangled him a few times when she was alive, but now, he found that he nearly missed it.

Rose looked up at her father, sensing his change of mood. "Do you still miss her just as much as you did, Dad?" she asked quietly. "You know what they say about time and healing."

He shook his head sadly. "It took me a long time to figure this out--I'm not like your mother or you; I never dissect or analyze more than I have to--but right after the War, when your Uncle Fred had passed, I didn't understand how I could move on as quickly as I did. Your mum told me then that there was no room for tears when we had so much to live for. I've only just got the gist of what she meant now, after she's gone. You know, after someone dies, you don't shed a tear on their behalf. You're not sad for them because they've passed... You grieve for yourself, because you have to go on living without them."

He sighed. "And me, Rosie, well, I know you hate when I talk like this, but I'm getting older. All your uncles have passed; Harry, your mum, they're gone now. As much as I love you kids, time doesn't heal as well as it used to... My life isn't filled up so much that there's no room left for tears."

Carefully, he wiped the tears from his daughter's cheeks. "Rosie, don't be sad because of me now," he chided gently. "Your dad is a tough old bugger, you know. And I love you and Hugo so much; that's more than enough to keep me going."

Rosie smiled. "Of course it is. I'll tell you a secret--Scorpius is going to kill me; even he doesn't know yet, but..." The tips of her ears turned red. "It looks like you're going to be a granddad again. Totally unexpected, but I'm pregnant!"

"That's brilliant, Rosie!" Ron hugged her as hard as he could from their seated position, their quiet celebration going unnoticed by the other adults in the dining room. When he pulled away, Rose was staring at his chest.

"Um, Dad, your chest is glowing," she observed hesitantly.

Ron glanced down at his shirt pocket. What in Merlin's name... He pulled out the Deluminator, whose top was flickering with an incandescent blue light.

"Is that the Deluminator Dumbledore gave you? Why is it lit up like that?" Rose said with a reverent hush.

"No," he said absentmindedly, "I found this one in a pawn shop on Diagon Alley. When it used to light up this way, I would... "

He clicked it once, and the living room was left in pitch-black, but Ron barely noticed, his attention focused on the silver lighter in front of him. Rosie didn't know what this meant but he did: there was only one reason the Deluminator would light up. Butterflies erupted in his stomach and his heart thumped with anticipation. It's time for me to go home.

"Dad?" Rose's whisper a few moments later did nothing to buoy his sinking spirits.

"Lumos. Guess it doesn't do what it used to," Ron said quietly. "I think--I'm feeling rather tired." He got up from the settee. "Clean up for me, would you, Rosie? And lock the door before you lot leave."

"Sure, Dad... Are you sure you're okay?"

Ron forced a smile. "Of course! Christmas has just worn me out a bit, that's all." Knowing if he dallied any longer, Rose would notice the expression he was trying to hide, he turned away.

"I'll call you in the morning," Rosie called towards him as he slipped into his bedroom.

Ron changed into his nightclothes and set the Deluminator on his bedside table, next to a picture of him and Hermione. Fat lot of good you did me in the end, he thought resentfully. Sighing, he lay down in bed and rolled onto his side, away from Hermione's warm look. He had known it was silly to hope that a lighter--not even the one Dumbledore had given him!--would be able to change his fate. Hermione would have scoffed at the notion in a heartbeat.

A few minutes later, Ron began to snore. A blue orb slipped out of the silver lighter and into his chest, coming to rest where his heart was, pulsing softly in time with his heartbeat.

~.~.~

Rose stared at her father lying on the bed, numb with shock. Seeing him this way, she could nearly fool herself into thinking he was sleeping. After all, that is what she had thought when she tried to contact him by Floo this morning. But by afternoon, when he hadn't called her, she decided she should check on him.

So here she was, and no matter how she wished things were different, her father wasn't asleep. Her father would never wake up again. He would never call her Rosie, never see Gary go to Hogwarts, never meet his newest grandchild... Dad had been so happy to hear her news last night... She pressed a trembling hand to her stomach and sat on the corner of the bed before her knees gave out on her entirely.

Turning away from his body helped. She could think a little more clearly, even though every breath she drew seemed to act as a reminder that he wasn't breathing.

He was gone.

Are you Hermione Granger's daughter or not? she admonished herself sternly. Mum would have called St. Mungo's first; they had to examine the body before anything else could be done. She took a deep breath to fortify herself and stood up resolutely.

But the sight of the picture frame in the vanity mirror made her pause. She gazed at the image of her mother and father, smiling softly. She had never seen a man more in love with a woman than her dad was with her mum. Listening to how he had talked about her last night, about how he had talked about his grief... 'You grieve for yourself, because you have to go on living without them.'

Rose turned back towards her father, her tears drying on her cheeks. His face looked peaceful, his eyes shut, and when she looked very carefully, his lips had curved in a hint of a smile.

Suddenly, Rose found herself smiling too. He's with Mum now; he doesn't have to grieve anymore. And neither did she--she had been blessed with a mother and father who loved her, an incredible husband and beautiful children...

As Dad said, she had so much to live for that there was no room for tears.

She lit the fire in the sitting room. "Scorpius," she called to her husband, as she wiped away her tears.

"Rose, you've been crying! What's happened?" he asked her, looking alarmed.

"I'll tell you in a moment--I need to call St. Mungo's first." Scorpius' eyes widened. "Don't worry; we'll be all right," she said firmly. "I just--I just needed to tell you first... I want to name our son Ron."

~.~.~ Fin ~.~.~

Dedicated to AK, who passed away 9 years ago today.
I hope to see him someday soon.

---

A/N: I didn't want to mention this at the start because it gives the plot away a bit, but this story was inspired by the moment in Deathly Hallows where Ron describes to Harry and Hermione how he found them again using the Deluminator (pg. 384-85): "[The little ball of light] sort of floated toward me,� said Ron, illustrating the movement with his free index finger, “right into my chest, and then--it just went straight through. It was here,� he touched a point close to his heart. “I could feel it, it was hot. And once it was inside me, I knew what I was supposed to do, I knew it would take me where I needed to go."

And in case you were wondering, Harry calling death the "next adventure" was a tribute to Dumbledore's wisdom... Ron never heard Dumbledore say it, but I imagine Harry stole that little gem of a phrase for his own use later on in adulthood. :)