Percy Jackson and the Department of Mysteries

36) RIP Ron

After a while of some serious partying (a few butterbeers and a game of charades), Mrs. Weasley yawned and said, "Well, I think I'll sort out that boggart before I turn in.... Arthur, I don't want this lot up too late, all right? Goodnight, everyone."

After a chorus of good nights, she left the kitchen. I stared door, wondering if anyone would notice if I followed her out. I was tired, and I wanted to get some sleep. I liked sleep.

Harry and Moody had a short conversation, in which Moody showed Harry some sort of picture, and Harry looked like he was gonna be sick.

"I'm tired," I said, watching Harry leave the kitchen. "I'm gonna go to bed. Night, peeps."

"A goodnight to you too, peeps," Mr. Weasley said.

"Whatever you think that means, it's not right," Bill turned to his father, and I slipped out of the room.

"Hey, wait up," I whispered loudly to Harry, who stopped at the first landing, looking back at me. "I got tired, so I figured I'd follow you out, try to fall asleep, inevitably find out I'm not really tired, and bother you for the next three hours."

"Oh, please, not again, Percy, I can't handle it," Harry pleaded, looking like I'd broken him. I might have. The last time I decided to bother him for three hours, he'd exploded Ron's bed. Ron had been in the bed at the time, so it was an awkward trip to the hospital wing. Thankfully, Ron forgave Harry immediately, seeing as I bother him often as well.

"You're a big, strong... no, you're not, but you can handle it," I said, then paused, frowning. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Harry asked.

"Shut up and maybe you'll find out," I said, and he closed his mouth. It became clearer. Someone was crying in the drawing room. And it wasn't like those little sniffles, this was full on sobbing.

"Hello?" Harry called out in concern, but there was no response. The cries continued.

I opened the door, and froze. Mrs. Weasley was cowering on the far wall, but that hadn't captured my attention.

On the carpet, in the center of the room, was Ron, clearly dead.

For a moment, the air in my lungs was replaced with ice, but then logic won out, and I remembered that Ron was downstairs.

"Boggart," I whispered, and felt myself twitch as I prepared to move. But I stayed still. I had a feeling my greatest fear wouldn't help make things better. My fear was the same thing. Instead, I called, "Mrs. Weasley?" My voice was strangely hoarse

"R-r-riddikulus!" Mrs. Weasley choked out, pointing her wand at Ron's body.

Crack.

Ron wasn't Ron anymore, but was Bill, lying spread-eagled on the floor, looking eerily like Cedric had looked the night he died.

"Mrs. Weasley, you need to imagine it as something ridiculous, or it won't work," I said, but I didn't think she heard me.

"R-ridikulus!" She choked again.

Crack.

This time, it was Mr. Weasley, lying his glasses half on his face, and a trickle of blood running down the side of his face.

"No!" Mrs. Weasley sobbed. "No... ridikulus! Ridikulus! RIDIKULUS!"

Crack. Dead Fred and George. Crack. Dead Perry. Crack. Dead Harry. Crack. Dead me...

"Mrs. Weasley, just get out of here!" Harry said, staring straight at my dead body, his face a sick green color. "Let someone else —"

"What's going on?"