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They had lost... he had lost... how? Everything was so well planned; well, as well planned as can be for war. They were on the verge of victory when that conniving, slithering b*****d pulled out his last card. His ace in the hole. A move used only in the most dire and desperate of situations. A move that pitted twins against one another, lovers became enemies, and the ones who would not be persuaded by this trickery were subjected to horrible mental torture. Molly was held and made to watch her children be tortured, mutilated and killed over and over again. Not by watching her fear being projected through a boggart, but by real Death Eaters. With a new potion given to them by that greasy git Snape himself, they were able to bring people back to life, only to kill them in more inventive and painful ways.

Electric green eyes could only watch the mayhem helplessly as the Dark Lord kept a lock on that damned scar, a physical portal into The-Boy-Who-Lived’s mind, his very being and reeked havoc on his body. Causing him such pain that he wasn’t even sure that the Cruciatus Curse could possibly rival it. Soon, all was dark.

Foul, sour death hung in the air like a chocking fog. There were no joyful cheers... that’s not to say there weren’t any cheers, there were, just not joyful ones. They were manic, venomous, and for lack of a better word, just plain evil.

He was the only one left. Surrounded by the deafening silence that all wars left in their wake. Falling to his knees, he pulled red hair into his lap. Red hair stained maroon with blood. “Ron... Ron...” He rocked the body and they laughed. Laughed at his pain, his tears... his apparent weakness.

Having heard a gasp, he pulled the body closer. “Ron? Ron! Come on mate... everything’s going to be OK. Ron! Stay awake!”

“Did we win?”

It was such a simple question, yet, the answer made Harry’s throat dry.

“Come on... don’t make me guess. Did we get it? Did we get the cup?” His voice was raspy and violent coughs racked his lithe body.

“What are you talking about, Ron?”

“The Quidditch Cup, ya wanker... did we get it?”

Harry’s eyes filled with more tears. ‘Poor bloke... he’s delusional...’ “Yeah, yeah we did Ron. You played beautifully. Soared like a hippogriff ya did.”

His small chuckles brought more coughing and blood, though he didn’t seem to notice it. “Oh, come off it.” He brought his hand up to look at it, seeing it coated in blood. “Ugh... more maroon gloves... I look absolutely ghastly in maroon; hate it...”

“Yeah mate, you do.” Harry said with a small laugh, tears streaming down his mud-splattered cheeks.

“I’m tired Harry.”

“Go to sleep Ron. You fought hard and bravely. You deserve peace.” His voice lowered slightly to a whisper as he stroked the boy’s hair back.

The drifting boy nodded his head. “Yeah, a nap wouldn’t hurt. When I wake up, I’m going to finally tell mum that maroon... just isn’t my...” The last word was whispered in vain as the frozen and unforgiving grip of death claimed the last living Weasley.

Harry clutched his long-time friend to his chest, rocking back and forth in a disturbed motion as his vocal cords strained hard with cries of pain, fear, anger and anxiety. “Maroon just doesn’t suit you Ron. Even in death.” He muttered into a deaf ear as he kept stroking the hair back off of the red-head’s forehead, trying to pull as much maroon blood off as possible.