Ron sat in his office, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on his desk. The hat he wore was tipped down over his eyes. Not that he really needed a hat for any reason, simply that he had taken to wearing one specifically during naps.

The best part of his job in the precognizant department was that no one could really yell at him for sleeping. He could argue that his visions came more clearly in dreams, which was actually a total lie, but at least believable. When someone walked in, he'd just mumble, "The Dow is falling, the Dow is falling" and suitably horrify the trespasser.

His chest rose and fell in an even pattern, heavy lids hidden by the brim of his Stetson. His doze was not quite in the realm of sleep, but not awake. He hovered eternally between the two.

Belligerent footsteps approached. Ron yawned but left his hat down. "G'afternoon, Harry."

"Stop doing that," his best friend said irritably, snatching the hat off of his head and dumping himself down in a chair opposite the desk.

Ron regarded the surly intruder with raised eyebrows. "You and Ginny break up again?"

Harry folded his arms and growled. "She's impossible. Just up and tells me she's pissed at me, then two seconds later she's making out with some chaser in the hallway."

Ron was not really surprised by this.

It all started the year Ron, Harry, and Hermione had finished Hogwarts- and Ginny hadn't. Harry had, with little thought, dumped her and moved to the greener pastures of an attractive keeper on his Quidditch team. She retaliated the following year by joining his rival's team, and after a huge match, they'd tumbled into bed together, being violently in love for a good month. They'd broken up as passionately as they'd reunited.

Since then, Harry and Ginny had fallen into a pattern of makeups and breakups and become a favorite topic of the tabloids. When they were happy, they were delirious; when upset at each other, full blown wars seemed docile in comparison.

"She just wants attention," Ron said, itching to reclaim his hat. "Maybe you've been practicing too much at the pitch."

"Breaking up with me every other week isn't exactly an appropriate method."

"Effective, though." Ron found a glass of water and sipped it. "When you get back together-"

"If," Harry corrected sharply.

"When," Ron repeated, rolling his eyes. "I'd suggest you send her flowers every day for a week, and make sure you write her when your teams are in different towns."

He was used to their volatile relationship. He handed out the same advice every time.

It didn't seem to work that well.

"Strike that," Ron sighed. "Just make sure that you don't exhaust her."

Ron looked content in a dreamy sort of way. Not like "mmm, dreamy," he hastily amended in his mind. More like he was in a perpetual dreamlike state. Hermione said it made him look attractive. Harry thought it made him look like a retard.

A happy retard.

Damn retarded happy person.

Harry rubbed his forehead in irritation and was reminded of the reason of his visit.

"Oh yeah," he said. "My scar was hurting this morning."

"I know," Ron said. "Do you remember the dream that came before?"

He shook his head. The images had faded throughout the day. "Just green."

Ron's instincts and clairvoyant ablities had been honed with a sharp blade, but dismissed the gift on a regular basis. "The world is screaming to you about what is to come. The cat, the ficus in the corner, the carpet. It's all trying to talk to you. Most of us have just forgotten how to listen," he had said more than once.

More useful than, "Ow, my scar."

"He's stirring something up." Ron bent the ends of his ridiculous hat back and forth. "I don't know what yet, but I've already briefed the Ministry of Magical Defense."

"Make me feel a little useless."

"No, no, no," he assured him. "You've just corroborated my suspiscions."

"Suspiscions, hell," Harry snapped. "You knew."

"I suspected," Ron said firmly. "And now you suspect, too. So the Defense can rest a little easier with the galleons they're pouring into security."

Harry glared at him.

"You're in a snit, and I'm not going to deal with it," Ron declared. "Go out and get foxed." He pulled a few coins from his pocket and slapped them in his palm. "On me."

Injured, Harry fingered the currency. "Not coming with me?"

"It's Friday," Ron said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"So?"

"She likes me better sober." Ron grinned. "And I'm not going to argue."

No Wedding Bells for Weasley and Potter

World-reknowned Quidditch players Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter are reportedly on the outs. Weasley has been seen on the arm of a teammate, chaser Virgil Howard. Howard's publicist has confirmed the relationship, but no comment has come from Weasley's spokeswoman.

It made his life seem tame.

"I'm getting married in six months," he said aloud, still not quite believing it.

While Harry disparaged the ideas of maturity and settling down as "boring," Ron was looking forward to having a nice little house with nice little curtains and a girl he was crazy about to share it with. Ron was ready for a little calm for awhile.

An aching began in his head. He took a swig of the coffee and promptly spat it out.

"Bad flavor?" said a passenger sympathetically.

Ron grinned sheepishly. "Nah, just hot."

But she tried not to let it get her down. It was Friday, after all, and Ron was coming.

Ron, with his big dopey grin and unkempt clothes. She missed him dreadfully during the week; but Friday night and all of Saturday and Sunday belonged to the both of them.

"I'm getting married in six months," she informed the cat on the edge of her dask. Her face split in a smile.

The cat, as usual, did not appear to care.

Hermione hummed a frütune while preparing her next lecture. Elegant scripts of calculations graced the blackboard. She refrained from dotting her i's with hearts, though she was sorely tempted.

"Professor Granger?"

She turned her head, blinking at the unfamiliar face. "Do I know you?"

"No, ma'am," the boy replied nervously, "I'm a first year Hufflepuff. Uh, Davey Deveraux."

"Nice to meet you, Davey." A quizzical eyebrow went up. "Can I help you?"

"Your boyfriend is out in the hallway," Davey blurted. "And he's vomiting something fierce."

Dropping her chalk and gathering her robes in her hands, she ran out to find him.

"Oh, god, Ron!" Hermione's voice cut through his haze. "Take my hand, we'll go to Pomfrey, okay?"

His stomach quieted but his head did not. She wiped his face delicately with something- he couldn't tell with his blurred eyes- and led him to the infirmary wing.

No sooner had she put him in a bed had he passed out.

He opened his eyes slowly, flinching. The light was burning him- hurt like hell, and soon the fire would spread to his brain.

"Turn off the lights," he begged hoarsely. His voice didn't even sound like his own, like it had been baked and broken.

Hermione murmured a quiet spell and returned her hands to his. "What was it?"

He relaxed his chest in the darkness. He took a deep, cleansing breath and tried to compose himself. "A vision. Strong- hit me like a train. It was so big, like a thousand things happening at once, and everything shouting at me. I remember it, but it will take me awhile to sort it out."

"Alright," she said, clutching his hand. "Are you going to be okay?"

"I think so," he said, mustering up a convincing smile. "Aren't you missing your last class?"

"Someone will have taken it over for me," she said with a shrug. She pressed a small kiss to his forehead. "They'll understand."

Silence fell. His lids felt heavy and he couldn't quite keep them open. He looked up into her eyes, imploring. "Don't leave me."

"I won't," she said gently, and crawled into the bed with him. She snuggled her back against his stomach. "I'll be right here."

Her warmth and comfort kept him sane. He shifted his arms around her and rested his face on her shoulder.

She felt... different. He screwed up his nose against her neck. The puzzled expression created a brief, tingling brush of his wrinkled nose to her skin.

"When were you going to tell me you were pregnant?"

"What?" she said, swatting the arm that lay across her stomach and whipping her head around.

"Oh," he said. "Were you saving it? Was it a surprise?"

"I'm not pregnant," she said firmly.

He raised an eyebrow. "If you say so." He closed his eyes again and nestled alongside her.

Hesitantly, she said, "Just out of curiosity, why would you think that I was?"

"Because I can feel something growing inside you," he replied, yawning. "And since you don't have a family history of tumors..."

"Oh, my god." Her grip on the blanket tightened.

"It's okay. We're getting married anyway."

"In six months," she retorted. "You have any idea how big I'll be in six months?"

"Um. No?"

"Too big to fit into that dress I've picked out."

He shrugged.

After a brief pause, she said, "September is pretty in Wales."

"That's nice," he responded in a way that seemed to also say, if not relevant at all.

"If we elope there, we won't have to deal with either of our families."

He thought about this.

"Good idea," he agreed sleepily.

Her date looked surprised, to say the least. "I was interesting enough yesterday."

"What can I say- short attention span," she said dismissively. "But, you know, it's been fun. Hey, you were even in the paper. How about that?" She patted his cheek gamely. "But honestly, Virgy, I think I should go prepare myself for some fantastic makeup sex."

"But what about us?" Virgil asked, hurt.

Ginny dug around in her purse and pressed a card in his hand. "Call her. Her name is Teri. She's very nice, and I think you'll get along splendidly."

Now he just looked baffled.

"I'll see ya at practice," she said cheerfully, and left to walk back to her flat.

It was a gorgeous night, not too cold or hot, and the lights of London shone down on her. She could have apparated home, but why waste the effort? It was just as convenient and much more pleasant to walk.

She opened her door and tossed her purse onto the sofa. "Quill, quill, quill," she mumbled, searching the room. She found one on the floor and scribbled a quick message on the back of a receipt in her purse.

Harry- I love you. Come home.

Ginny gave it to her owl, who didn't seem fazed in the least and needed no instructions.

The twins were out with him, but they certainly weren't having any problems becoming drunk. Fred was singing off key and George kept making suggestive looks to an empty bar stool.

Harry sighed and stared at his full bottle. "I'm too depressed to drink."

"What?" George said in a huff. "Too depressed to drink? That's impossible!"

Fred hiccuped in the middle of a rendition of "Mary had a Little Lamb." "You've got to admit that's a little strange, Harry."

"I've certainly never experienced it," George confided with a wink to the stool.

"Mr. Potter?" a waitress said.

"Yeah?"

"I've a message for you," she said, handing him a scrap of paper.

Harry read it and grinned. "Look at this," he said, giving it to Fred.

"You bought pink cowboy boots for 20 galleons?" Fred said in confusion.

"Other side, you ass."

"She wants you back?" George surmised.

Fred clapped Harry on the back. "Well, at least one of us is going to get lucky tonight."

Harry grinned and split out of the bar.

The lights were on, so she must be home. He checked the kitchen, where he found a bottle of open wine, and then the bedroom, where her sheets had been changed to the silk variety.

Which left the bathroom.

No one could accuse Ginny of poor planning.

He entered the bathroom, grin stretched from ear to ear. He saw the bubble bath container on the counter.

It just got better and better.

He turned the corner and saw the bath. It was piled high with bubbles, steam rising from the top. Two glasses of wine were set on the edge. There was really only one problem.

It was empty.

The window behind it was open, and a cool breeze flew in. She had been here. But where had she gone? Idly, he picked up a glass of wine and drank a bit of it.

His scar began thumping in his skin like mad, and a very bad feeling settled in his stomach.

He cursed, crushing the glass in his hand. "Voldemort."