DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters. They belong to al persons who hold rights over them in whatever form. I am only using them for fan fiction. It is not my intention to infringe these rights whatsoever.
Ron Weasley starred at the tombstones of the people who once meant so much to him throughout his life. His mother, his father, his brothers, his sister, his wife Hermione and his best friend Harry. All lay at peace, bound for a better place. Standing here today with Neville Longbottom brought everything into perspective. He was an old man now. He and Neville were the only two left alive out of their graduation class. How long ago it was now, that McGonagall had handed him his diploma, she had died not ten years later- her heart had been weak ever since those stunners had hit her.
Ron had lived to see the birth of his great grandson- Oliver Weasley. Now five, Oliver was the only Weasley without red hair. His blond head glistened in the late evening sun. Ron was very fond of the boy, who, even now, stood by him resolutely. He had lived through the second war, seen Harry triumph over evil. He had seen Harry and Ginny married. Stood as godfather to their first born son. He well remembered the sense of pride the day Hermione walked up the isle to exchange vows with him. Memories, painful memories, which kept surfacing now in his old age- screaming echoes of a life long gone. A long forgotten saying sounded in Ron's head like a bell toll. It was a saying of his fathers, which he had uttered on his deathbed.
"Son, remember, even muggles have magic. We have the same brand of magic. It's called life. When the magic of life wears out, we no longer exist in this world. We move on to better things. We are homeward bound."
The magic of life? Ron held it in abundance. So did Neville. Voldemort knew this. Neither spoke of it, though each knew about it. What would be the point? Leaning over, he kissed Hermione's grave and whispered "It will run out soon dear."
Walking back to the Burrow with Neville and Oliver, with Teddy Lupin keeping watch at a distance, seemed to take an age that Ron wished would end. A death eater, revealed later to be Rudolphs Lestrange, furious at Voldemorts demise, had sought revenge. Knowing that he could not get at Harry he had hit out at Ron. Long would Ron remember the words- 'You will wish for death long before it finds you.' His curse had hit home.
That night Ron sat alone. Ron was tired of life. He was world-weary, tired of the existence which he lead. The Burrow was quiet, despite the fact that almost the generations of the family from him down to Oliver were crowded within its rooms or in tents outside. Not even the snores of Hagrid's son reached Ron's ears. Ron smiled when he remembered his daughter Molly marrying Julian Hagrid.
Ron was pondering his fathers dying words when a blond head caught his attention. From deep within a pocket he withdrew a lemon drop- Oliver's favourite. He smiled at this, the youngest of the extended Weasley family, and probably the last child he would see born into any of the family's, though one of his granddaughters was heavily pregnant. He then took Oliver onto his knees and told him the story of the great Harry Potter, and his famous defeat of Lord Voldemort. He told him of their adventures at Hogwarts, and of the great Dumbledore, his power and the beginning of two legends.
"Oliver," he said, "remember that both wizards and muggles have magic. It's the magic of life. It runs in our very veins, it's on our blood. When this magic wears out, we no longer exist in this world. We move on. Better things await us in the next life."
Hidden from the little boy was the wish that this brand of magic would wear out, and the fear that it would pass down through the line to Oliver whom he cared for so much. With that, Ron brought Oliver up to bed, and returned to the sitting room. He placed a disc onto the muggle style turntable, and sat down and looked into the fire. The noted of Requiem for a Dream filled the room, kept in by the silencing charms placed there long ago by Ron. Soon, not even the fire could warm Ronald Weasley.
Oliver watched as they lowered his great-grandfather into the grave beside his great-grandmother. His great-grandfather had received his wish. He was homeward bound.
A/N: I had this story saved for some time, and a good friend finally convinced me to post it. Hope you enjoy, and please be kind when you review.